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flDacmillan'd Colonial Xibrari^

THE

DESCENT OF MAN

AND OTHER STORIES

EDITH WHARTON

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i^ontion

MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited

AU rigkti reserved

692181

• • *

•-.:

EDWARD L. BURLINGAME

MV FIRST AND KINDEST CRITIC

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CONTENTS

^ I. The Descent of Man
« II. The Other Two
I III. Expiation.
^ IV. The Lady's Maid's Bell
» V. The Mission of Jane
» VI. The Reckoning •

VII. The Letter
VIII. The Dilettante
» IX. The Quicksand .

X. A Venetian Night's ENTBRTAurifENT

77
119

«59

«9S

*33
263

281
3«3

THE DESCENT OF MAN

When Professor linyard came back from his
holiday in the Maine woods the air of rejuvena-
tion he brought with him was due less to the
influences of the climate than to the companion-
ship he had enjoyed on his travels. To Mrs.
Linyard's observant eye he had appeared to set
out alone ; but an invisible traveller had in fact
accompanied him, and if his heart beat high it
was simply at the pitch of his adventure : for
the Professor had eloped with an idea.

No one who has not tried the experiment
can divine its exhilaration. Professor Linyard
would not have changed places with any hero of
romance pledged to a flesh-and-blood abduction.
The most fascinating female is apt to be en-
cumbered with luggage and scruples : to take
up a good deal of room in the present and
overlap inconveniently into the future ; whereas
an idea can accommodate itself to a single
molecule of the brain or expand to the cir-
cumference of the horizon. The Professor *s
companion had to the utmost this quality of

4 THE DESCENT OF MAN i

adaptability. As the express train whirled him
away from the somewhat inelastic circle of Mrs.
Linyard*s affections, his idea seemed to be sitting
opposite him, and their eyes met every moment
or two in a glance of joyous complicity ; yet
when a friend of the family presently joined him
and began to talk about college matters, the idea
slipped out of sight in a flash, and the Professor
would have had no difficulty in proving that he
was alone.

But if, from the outset, he found his idea the
most agreeable of fellow-travellers, it was only
in the aronutic solitude of the woods that he
tasted the full savour of his adventure. There,
during the long cool August days, lying full
length on the pine-needles and gazing up into
the sky, he would meet the eyes of his com-
panion bending over him like a nearer heaven.
And what eyes they were !— clear yet unfathom-
able, bubbling with inexhaustible laughter, yet
drawing their freshness and sparkle from the
central depths of thought ! To a man who for
twenty years had faced an eye reflecting the
commonplace with perfect accuracy, these escapes
into the inscrutable had always been peculiarly
inviting ; but hitherto the Professor s mental
infidelities had been restricted by an unbroken
and relentless domesticity. Now, for the first
time since his marriage, chance had given him
six weeks to himself, and he was coming home
with his lungs full of liberty.

It must not be inferred that the Professor's

I THE DESCENT OF MAN 5

domestic relations were defective : they were in
fact so complete that it was almost impossible to
get away from them. It is the happy husbands
who are really in bondage : the little rift within
the lute is often a passage to freedom. Marriage
had given the Professor exactly what he had
sought in it : a comfortable lining to life. The
impossibility of rising to sentihiental crises had
made him scrupulously careful not to shirk the
practical obligations of the bond. He took
as it were a sociolc^ical view of lus case, and
modestly regarded himself as a brick in that
foundation on which the state is supposed to
rest. Perhaps if Mrs. Linyard had cared about
entomology, or had taken sides in the war over
the transmis^on of acquired characteristics, he
might have had a less impersonal notion of mar-
riage ; but he was unconscious of any deficiency
in their relation, and if consulted woidd probably
have declared that he didn't want any woman
bothering with his beetles. His real life had
always l^n in the universe of thought, in that en-
chanted region which, to those who have lingered
there, comes to have so much more colour and
substance than the painted curtain hanging
before it. The Professor's particular veil of
Maia was a narrow strip of homespun woven in
a monotonous pattern ; but he had only to lift
it to step into an empire.

This unseen universe was thronged with the
most seductive shapes : the Professor moved
Sultan-like through a seraglio of ideas. But of

6 THE DESCENT OF MAN i

all the lovely apparitions that wove their spells
about him, none had ever worn quite so per-
suasive an aspect as this latest favourite. For
the others were mostly rather grave companions,
serious-minded and elevating enough to have
passed muster in a Ladies' Debating Club ; but
this new fancy of the Professor's was simply one
embodied laugh. It was, in other words, the
smile of relaxation at the end of a long day's
toil : the flash of irony which the laborious mind
projects, irresistibly, over labour conscientiously
performed. The Professor had always been a
hard worker. If he was an indulgent friend to
his ideas he was also a stern taskmaster to them.
For, in addition to their other duties, they had
to support his family : to pay the butcher and
baker, and provide for Jack's schooling and
Millicent's dresses. The Professor's household
was a modest one, yet it tasked his ideas to keep
it up to his wife's standard. Mrs. Linyard was
not an exacting wife, and she took enough pride
in her husband's attainments to pay for her
honours by turning Millicent's dresses and
darning Jack's socks and going to the College
receptions year after year in the same black sUk
with shiny seams. It consoled her to see an
occasional mention of Professor Linyard's re-
markable monograph on the Ethical Reactions
of the Infusoria, or an allusion to his investiga-
tions into the Unconscious Cerebration of the
Amoeba.

Still there were moments when the healthy

I THE DESCENT OF MAN 7

indifFerence of Jack and Millicent reacted on the
maternal sympathies ; when Mrs, Linyard would
have made her husband a railway director, if by
this transformation she might have increased her
boy's allowance and given her daughter a new
hat, or a set of furs such as the other girls were
wearing. Of such moments of rebellion the
Professor himself was not wholly unconscious.
He could not indeed understand why any one
should want a new hat ; and as to an allowance,
he had had much less money at college than
Jack, and had yet managed to buy a microscope
and collect a few * specimens * ; while Jack was
free from such expensive tastes ! But the Pro-
fessor did not let his want of sympathy interfere
with the discharge of his paternal obligations.
He worked hard to keep the wants of his family
gratified, and it was precisely in the endeavour
to attain this end that he at length broke down
and had to cease from work altogether.

To cease from work was not to cease from
thought of it ; and in the unwonted pause from
effort the Professor found himself taking a
general survey of the field he had travelled.
At last it was possible to lift his nose from the
loom, to step a moment in front of the tapestry
he had been weaving. From this first inspec-
tion of the pattern so long wrought over from
behind, it was natural to glance a litde farther
and seek its reflection in the public eye. It was
not indeed of his special task that he thought in
this connection. He was but one of the great

8 THE DESCENT OF MAN i

army of weavers at work among the threads of
that cosmic woof ; and what he sought was the
general impression their labour had produced.

When Professor Linyard first plied his
microscope, the audience of the man of science
had been composed of a few fellow -students,
sympathetic or hostile as their habits of mind
predetermined, but versed in the jargon of the
profession and familiar with the point of de-
parture. In the intervening quarter of a century,
however, this little group had been swallowed
up in a larger public. Every one now read
scientific books and expressed an opinion on
them. The ladies and the clergy had taken
them up first ; now they had passed to the
schoolroom and the kindergarten. Daily life
was regulated on scientific principles ; the daily
papers had their * Scientific Jottings ' ; nurses
passed examinations in hygienic science, and
Dabies were fed and dandled according to the
new psychology.

The very fact that scientific investigation
still had, to some minds, the flavour of hetero-
doxy, gave it a perennial interest. The mob
had broken down the walls of tradition to batten
in the orchard of forbidden knowledge. The
inaccessible goddess whom the Professor had
served in his youth now offered her charms in
the market-place. And yet it was not the
same goddess, after all, but a pseudo-science
masquerading in the garb of the real divinity.
This false goddess had her ritual and her

I THE DESCENT OF MAN 9

literature. She had her sacred books, written by
false priests and sold by millions to the faithful.
In the most successful of these works, ancient
dogma and modern discovery were depicted in
a dose embrace under the lime-lights of a hazy
transcendentalism ; and the tableau never failed
of its effect. Some of the books designed on
this popular model had lately fallen into the
Professor's hands, and they filled him with
mingled rage and hilarity. The rage soon
died : he came to regard this mass of pseudo-
literature as protecting the truth from desecra-
tion. But the hilarity remained, and flowed
into the form of his idea. And the idea — ^the
divine incomparable idea — was simply that he
should avenge his goddess by satirizing her
false interpreters. He would write a skit on
the * popular * scientific book ; he would so ^
heap platitude on platitude, fallacy on fallacy,
false analogy on false analogy, so use his superior
knowledge to abound in the sense of the ignor- '
ant, that even the gross crowd would join in
the laugh against its augurs. And the laugh
should be something more than the distension
of mental muscles ; it should be the trumpet-
blast bringing down the walls of ignorance,
or at least the little stone striking the giant
between the eyes.

The Professor, on presenting his card, had
imagined that it would command prompt access
to the publisher's sanctuary ; but the young man
who read his name was not moved to immediate
action. It was clear that Professor Linyard of
Hillbridge University was not a specific figure
to the purveyors of popular literature. But the
publisher was an old friend ; and when the card
had finally drifted to his office on the languid
tide of routine he came forth at once to greet
his visitor.

The warmth of his welcome convinced the
Professor that he had been right in bringing
his manuscript to Ned Harviss. He and
Harviss had been at Hillbridge together, and
the future publisher had been one of the wildest
spirits in that band of college outlaws which
yearly turns out so many inoflFensive citizens
and kind husbands and fathers. The Professor
knew the taming qualities of life. He was
aware that many of his most reckless comrades
had been transformed into prudent capitalists
or cowed wage-earners ; but he was almost sure

II THE DESCENT OF MAN 1 1

that he could count on Harviss. So rare a
sense of irony, so keen a perception of relative
values, could hardly have been blunted even by
twenty years* intercourse with the obvious.

The publisher's appearance was a little dis-
concerting. He looked as if he had been
fattened on popular fiction ; and his fat was full
of optimistic creases. The Professor seemed to
see him bowing into the office a long train of
spotless heroines laden with the maiden tribute
of the hundredth thousand volume.

Nevertheless, his welcome was reassuring..
He did not disown his early enormities, and
capped his visitor's tentative allusions by such
flagrant references to the past that the Professor
produced his manuscript without a scruple.

* What — you don't mean to say you've been
doing something in our line ? '

The Professor smiled. * You publish scien-
tific books sometimes, don't you ? '

The publisher's optimistic creases relaxed a
little. * H'm — it all depends — I'm afraid you're
a little foo scientific for us. We have a big sale
for scientific breakfast foods, but not for the
concentrated essences. In your case, of course, I
should be delighted to stretch a point ; but in your
own interest I ought to tell you that perhaps one
of the educational houses would do you better.'

The Professor leaned back, still smiling
luxuriously.

*Well, look it over — I rather think you'll
take it.'

12 THE DESCENT OF MAN ii

* Oh, we'll take it, as I say ; but the terms
might not '

* No matter about the terms *

The publisher threw his head back with a
laugh. *I had no idea that science was so
profitable ; we find our popular novelists are
the hardest hands at a bargain/

* Science is disinterested,* the Professor cor-
rected him. * And I have a fancy to have you
publish this thing/

* That's immensely good of you, my dear
fellow. Of course your name goes with a certain
public — and I rather like the originality of our
bringing out a work so out of our line. I
daresay it nuy boom us both.' His creases
deepened at the thought, and he shone en-
couragingly on the Professor's leave-taking.

Withm a fortnight, a line from Harviss
recalled the Professor to town. He had been
looking forward with immense zest to this
second meeting ; Harviss's college roar was in
his tympanum, and he could already hear the
protracted chuckle which would follow his
friend's progress through the manuscript. He
was proud of the adroitness with which he had
kept his secret from Harviss, had maintained
to the last the pretence of a serious work, in
order to give the keener edge to his reader's
enjoyment. Not since undergraduate days had
the Professor tasted such a draught of pure fun
as his anticipations now poured for him.

This time his card brought instant admission.

■

II THE DESCENT OF MAN 13

He was bowed into the office like a successful
novelist, and Harviss grasped him with both
hands.

^ Well — do you mean to take it ? ' he asked
with a lingering coquetry.

* Take it f Take it, my dear fellow ? It's
in press already — ^you'll excuse my not waiting
to consult you? There will be no difficulty
about terms, I assure you, and we had barely
time to catch the autumn market. My dear
linyard, why didn't you fell me ? ' His voice
sank to a reproachful solemnity, and he pushed
forward his own arm-chair.

The Professor dropped into it with a chuckle.
* And miss the joy of letting you find out ? '

* Well — it was a joy.' Harviss held out a
box of his best cigars. *I don't know when
I've had a bigger sensation. It was so deucedly
unexpected— and, my dear fellow, you've brought
it so exactly to the right shop.'

*rm glad to hear you say so,' said the
Professor modestly.

Harviss laughed in rich appreciation. ^I
don't suppose you had a doubt of it ; but of
course I was quite unprepared. And it's so
extraordinarily out of your line '

The Professor took off his glasses and rubbed
them with a slow smile.

^ Would you have thought it so — at college ? '

Harviss stared. *At college? — ^Why, you
were the most iconoclastic devil '

There was a perceptible pause. The Professor

14 THE DESCENT OF MAN ii

restored his glasses and looked at his friend.

* Well ? ' he said simply.

* Well ? * echoed the other, still staring.

* Ah — I see ; you mean that that's what ex-
plains it. The swing of the pendulum, and so
forth. Well, I admit it's not an uncommon
phenomenon. I've conformed myself, for ex-
ample ; most of our crowd have, I believe ; but
somehow I hadn't expected it of you.'

The close observer might have detected a
faint sadness under the official congratulation of
his tone ; but the Professor was too amazed to
have an ear for such fine shades.

* Expected it of me ? Expected what of
me ? ' he gasped. ^ What in heaven do you
think this thing is ? ' And he struck his fist on
the manuscript which lay between them.

Harviss had recovered his optimistic creases.
He rested a benevolent eye on the document.

*Why, your apologia — your confession of
faith, I should call it. You surely must have
seen which way you were going ? You can't
have written it in your sleep ? '

* Oh, no, I was wide awake enough,' said the
Professor faintly.

* Well, then, why are you staring at me as if
I were not ? ' Harviss leaned forward to lay a
reassuring hand on his visitor's worn coat-sleeve.
' Don't mistake me, my dear Linyard. Don't
fancy there was the least unkindness in my
allusion to your change of front. What is
growth but the shifting of the stand - point ?

II THE DESCENT OF MAN 15

Why should a man be expected to look at life
with the same eyes at twenty and — at our age ?
It never occurred to me that you could feel the
least delicacy in admitting that you have come
round a little — have fallen into line, so to
speak/

But the Professor had sprung up as if to give
his lungs more room to expand ; and from them
there issued a laugh which shook the editorial
rafters.

^ Oh Lx)rd, oh Lord — is it really as good as
that ? •

Harviss had glanced instinctively toward the
electric bell on his desk ; he was evidently pre-
pared for an emergency.

* My dear fellow ' he began in a soothing

tone.

*Oh, let me have my laugh out, do,' im-
plored the Professor. * I'll — I'll quiet down in
a minute ; you needn't ring for the young man.'
He dropped into his chair again and grasped its
arms to steady his shaking. * This is the best
laugh I've hzid since college,' he brought out
between his paroxysms. And then, suddenly,
he sat up with a groan. * But if it's as good as
that it's a failure ! ' he exclaimed.

Harviss, stiffening a little, examined the tip
of his cigar. *My dear linyard,' he said at
length, *I don't understand a word you're
saying.'

The Professor succumbed to a fresh access,
from the vortex of which he managed to

1 6 THE DESCENT OF MAN ii

fling out — *But that's the very core of the
joke ! '

Harviss looked at him resignedly. 'What
is?'

*Why, your not seeing — your not under-
standing *

* Not understanding what ? '

* Why, what the book is meant to be/ His
laughter subsided again and he sat gazing
thoughtfully at the publisher. * Unless it
means,* he wound up, *that IVe overshot the
mark.'

* If I am the mark, you certainly have,' said
Harviss, with a glance at the clock.

The Professor caught the glance and inter-
preted it. 'The book is a skit,' he said, rising.

The other stared. * A skit } It's not serious,
you mean ? '

* Not to me — ^but it seems you've taken it so.'

* You never told me ' began the publisher

in a ruffled tone.

* No, I never told you,' said the Professor.
Harviss sat staring at the manuscript between

them. * I don't pretend to be up in such recon-
dite forms of humour,' he said, still stiffly. * Of
course you address yourself to a very small class
of readers.'

* Oh, infinitely small,' admitted the Professor,
extending his hand toward the manuscript.

Harviss appeared to be pursuing his own
train of thought. * That is,' he continued, * if
you insist on an ironical interpretation.'

II THE DESCENT OF MAN 17

* If I insist on it — ^what do you mean ? *

The publisher smiled faintly. *Well — ^isn*t
the book susceptible of another ? If / read it
without seeing *

* Well ? * murmured the other, fascinated.

' why shouldn't the rest of the world ? *

declared Harviss boldly. *I represent the
Average Reader — that's my business, that's
what I've been training myself to do for the
last twenty years. It's a mission like another —
the thing is to do it thoroughly ; not to cheat
and compromise. I know fellows who are pub-
lishers in business hours and dilettantes the rest
of the time. Well, they never succeed : con-
victions are just as necessary in business as in
religion. But that's not the point — I was
going to say that if you'll let me handle this
book as a genuine thing I'll guarantee to make
it go.'

The Professor stood motionless, his hand
still on the manuscript.

* A genuine thing ? ' he echoed.

* A serious piece of work — ^the expression of
your convictions. I tell you there's nothing
the public likes as much as convictions — they'll
always follow a man who believes in his own
ideas. And this book is just on the line of
popular interest. You've got hold of a big
thing. It's full of hope and enthusiasm : it's
written in the religious key. There are pass-
ages in it that would do splendidly in a Birth-
day Book — ^things that popular preachers would

1 8 THE DESCENT OF MAN ii

quote in their sermons. If you*d wanted to
catch a big public you couldn't have gone
about it in a better way. The thing's perfect
for my purpose — I wouldn't let you alter a
word of it. It will sell like a popular novel if
you'll let me handle it in the right way.'

Ill

When the Professor left Harviss*s office the
manuscript remained behind. He thought he
had been taken by the huge irony of the situa-
tion — by the enlarged circumference of the
joke. In its original form, as Harviss had said,
the book would have addressed itself to a very
limited circle : now it would include the world.
The elect would understand ; the crowd would
not ; and his work would thus serve a double
purpose. And, after all, nothing was changed
in the situation ; not a word of the book was
to be altered. The change was merely in the
publisher's point of view, and in the * tip ' he was
to give the reviewers. The Professor had only
to hold his tongue and look serious.

These arguments found a strong reinforce-
ment in the large premium which expressed
Harviss's sense of his opportunity. As a
satire the book would have brought its author
nothing ; in fact, its cost would have come out
of his own pocket, since, as Harviss assured
him, no publisher would have risked taking it.
But as a profession of faith, as the recantation

20 THE DESCENT OF MAN in

of an eminent biologist, whose leanings had
hitherto been supposed to be toward a cold
determinism, it would bring in a steady income
to author and publisher. The offer found the
Professor in a moment of financial perplexity.
His illness, his unwonted holiday, the necessity
of postponing a course of well-paid lectures,
had combined to diminish his resources; and
when Harviss offered him an advance of a
thousand dollars the esoteric savour of the joke
became irresistible. It was stOl as a Joke that
he persisted in regarding the transaction ; and
though he had pledged himself not to betray
the real intent of the book, he held in petto the
notion of some day being able to take the
public into his confidence. As for the initiated,
they would know at once : and however long
a face he pulled, his colleagues would see the
tongue in his cheek. Meanwhile it fortunately
happened that, even if the book should achieve
the kdnd of triumph prophesied by Harviss,
it would not appreciably injure its author's
professional standing. Professor Linyard was
known chiefly as a microscopist. On the
structure and habits of a certain class of
coleoptera he was the most distinguished living
authority ; but none save his intimate friends
knew what generalizations on the destiny of
man he had drawn from these special studies.
He might have published a treatise on the
Filioque without disturbing the confidence of
those on whose approval his reputation rested ;

in THE DESCENT OF MAN 21

and moreover he was sustained by the thought
that one glance at his book would let them
into its secret. In fact, so sure was he of this
that he wondered the astute Harviss had cared
to risk such speedy exposure. But Harviss
had probably reflected that even in this rever-
berating age the opinions of the laboratory do
not easily reach the street ; and the Professor,
at any rate, was not bound to offer advice on
this point.

The determining cause of his consent was
the fact that the book was already in press.
The Professor knew little about the workings
of the press, but the phrase gave him a sense
of finality, of having been caught himself in
the toils of that mysterious engine. If he had
had time to think the matter over his scruples
might have dragged him back ; but his con-
science was eased oy the futility of resistance.

Mrs. Lin yard did not often read the papers ;
and there was therefore a special significance
in her approaching her husband one evening
after dinner with a copy of the New Tork
Investigator in her hand. Her expression lent
solemnity to the act : Mrs. Linyard had a
limited but distinctive set of expressions, and
she now looked as she did when the President
of the University came to dine.

*You didn't tell me of this, &muel,* she
said in a slightly tremulous voice. >

* Tell you of what } ' returned the Professor,
reddening to the margin of his baldness.

*That you had published a book — I might
never have heard of it if Mrs. Pease hadn't
brought me the paper.'

Her husband rubbed his eyeglasses with a
groan. *Oh, you would have heard of it,'
he said gloomily.

Mrs. Linyard stared. *Did you wish to
keep it from me, Samuel ? ' And as he made
no answer, she added with irresistible pride :

IV THE DESCENT OF MAN 23

* Perhaps you don't know what beautiful things
have been said about it/

He took the paper with a reluctant hand.
^ Has Pease been saying beautiful things about

XL •

* The Professor ? Mrs. Pease didn't say he
had mentioned it.'

The author heaved a sigh of relief. His
book, as Harviss had prophesied, had caught
the autumn market : had caught and captured
it. The publisher had conducted the campaign
like an experienced strategist. He had com-
pletely surrounded the enemy. Every news-
paper, every periodical, held in ambush an
advertisement of *The Vital Thing.' Weeks
in advance the great commander had begun
to form his lines of attack. Allusions to the
remarkable significance of the coming work
had appeared first in the scientific and literary
reviews, spreading thence to the supplements
of the daily journals. Not a moment passed
without a quickening touch to the public con-
sciousness : seventy millions of people were
forced to remember at least once a day that
Professor Linyard's book was on the verge of
appearing. Slips emblazoned with the question :
Have you read • The Vital Thing"? fell from the
pages of popular novels and whitened the floors
of crowded street-cars. The query, in large
lettering, assaulted the traveller at the railway
bookstall, confronted him on the walls of
< elevated ' stations, and seemed, in its ascending

24 THE DESCENT OF MAN iv

scale, about to supplant the interrogations as
to sapolio and stove polish which animate our
rural scenery.

On the day of publication the Professor had
withdrawn to his laboratory. The shriek of
the advertisements was in his ears, and his one
desire was to avoid all knowledge of the event
they heralded. A reaction of self-consciousness
had set in, and if Harviss's cheque had sufficed
to buy up the first edition of *The Vital Thing*
the Professor would gladly have devoted it
to that purpose. But the sense of inevitable-
ness gradually subdued him, and he received
his wife's copy of the Investigator with a kind
of impersonal curiosity. The review was a
long one, full of extracts : he saw, as he glanced
over these, how well they would look in a
volume of * Selections.' The reviewer began
by thanking his author ^ for sounding with no
uncertain voice that note of ringing optimism,
of faith in man's destiny and the supremacy of
good, which has too long been silenced by the
whining chorus of a decadent nihilism. . . .
It is well,' the writer continued, *when such
reminders come to us not from the moralist
but from the man of science — ^when from the
desiccating atmosphere of the laboratory there
rises this glorious cry of faith and recon-
struction.*

The review was minute and exhaustive.
Thanks no doubt to Harviss's diplomacy, it
had been given to the Investigators * best man^*

IV THE DESCENT OF MAN 25

and the Professor was startled by the bold eye
with which his emancipated fallacies confronted
him. Under the reviewer*s handling they
made up admirably as truths, and their author
began to understand Harviss's regret that they
should be used for any less profitable purpose.

The Investigatory as Harviss phrased it,
* set the pace,' and the other journals followed,
finding it easier to let their critical man-
of- all -work play a variation on the first
reviewer's theme than to secure an expert to
^ do ' the book afresh. But it was evident that
the Professor had captured his public, for all
the resources • of the profession could not, as
Harviss gleefully pointed out, have carried the
book so straight to the heart of the nation.
There was something noble in the way in which
Harviss belittled his own share in the achieve-
ment and insisted on the inutility of shoving a
book which had started with such headway on.

* All I ask you is to admit that I saw what
would happen,' he said with a touch of pro-
fessional pride. *I knew you'd struck the
right note — I knew they'd be quoting you from
Maine to San Francisco. Good as fiction ?
It's better — it'll keep going longer.'

* Will it ? * s^d the Professor with a slight
shudder. He was resigned to an ephemeral
triumph but the thought of the book's per-
sistency frightened him.

* I should say so ! Why, you fit in every-
where — ^science, theology, natural history — ^and

26 THE DESCENT OF MAN iv

then the all-for-the-best element which is so
popular just now. Why, you come right in
with the How-to-Relax series, and they sell
way up in the millions. And then the book's
so full of tenderness — there are such lovely
things in it about flowers and children. I
didn't know an old Dryasdust like you
could have such a lot of sentiment in him.
Why, I actually caught myself snivelling over
that passage about the snowdrops piercing the
frozen earth ; and my wife was saying the
other day that, since she's read "The Vital
Thing," she begins to think you must write
the "What-Cheer Column'* in the Inglenook^
He threw back his head with a laugh which
ended in the inspired cry : * And, by George,
sir, when the thing begins to slow off we'll
start somebody writing against it, and that
will run us straight up into another hundred
thousand.'

And as an earnest of this belief he drew the
Professor a supplementary cheque.

Mrs. Lin yard's knock cut short the Impor-
tunities of the lady who had been trying to
persuade the Professor to be taken by flash-
light at his study -table for the Christmas
number of the Inglenook. On this point the
Professor had fancied himself impregnable ; but
the unwonted smile with which he welcomed
his wife's intrusion showed that his defences
were weakening.

The lady from the Inglenook took the hint
with professional promptness, but said brightly,
as she snapped the elastic around her note-book :

* I shan't let you forget me. Professor.'

The groan with which he followed her
retreat was interrupted by his wife's question :

* Do they pay you for these interviews, Samuel ? '

The Professor looked at her with sudden
attention. *Not directly,' he said, wondering
at her expression.

She sank down with a sigh. •Indirectly,
then?'

• What is the matter, my dear ? I gave you

Harviss's second cheque the other day '

28 THE DESCENT OF MAN v

Her tears arrested him. * Don*t be hard on
the boy, Samuel ! I really believe your success
has turned his head/

• The boy — ^what boy ? My success ?

Explain yourself, Susan ! '

^ It*s only that Jack has — has borrowed some
money — which he can*t repay. But you mustn't
think him altogether to blame, Samuel. Since
the success of your book he has been asked
about so much — ^it*s given the children quite a
different position. Millicent says that wherever
they go the first question asked is, ^^ Are you any
relation of the author of * The Vital Tmng * ? "
Of course we're all very proud of the book ;
but it entails obligations which you may not
have thought of in writing it.'

The Professor sat gazmg at the letters and
newspaper clippings on the study-table which
he had just successfully defended from the
camera of the Inglenook. He took up an
envelope bearing the name of a popular weekly
paper.

* I don't know that the Inglenook would help
much,' he said, * but I suppose this might.'

Mrs. Linyard's eyes glowed with maternal
avidity.

' What is it, Samuel ? '

*A series of "Scientific Sermons" for the
Round-the-<jas-Log column of The Womatis
World. I believe that journal has a larger
circulation than any other weekly, and they
pay in proportion.'

▼ THE DESCENT OF MAN 29

He had not even asked the extent of Jack's
indebtedness. It had been so easy to relieve
recent domestic difficulties by the timely pro-
duction of Harviss*s two cheques that it now
seemed natural to get Mrs. Linyard out of the
room by promising further reinforcements.
The Professor had indignantly rejected Hanriss's
suggestion that he should follow up his success
by a second volume on the same lines. He
had sworn not to lend more than a passive
support to the fraud of * The Vital Thing * ;
but the temptation to free himself from Mrs.
Linyard prevailed over his last scruples, and
within an hour he was at work on the Scientific
Sermons.

The Professor was not an unkind man. He
really enjoyed making his family happy ; and it
was his own business if his reward for so doing
was that it kept them out of his way. But the
success of * The Vital Thing * gave him more
than this negative satisfaction. It enlarged his
own existence and opened new doors into other
lives. The Professor, during fifty virtuous
years, had been cognizant of only two types
of women : the fond and foolish, whom one
married, and the earnest and intellectual, whom
one did not. Of the two, he infinitely pre-
ferred the former, even for conversational
purposes. But as a social instnmient woman
was unknown to him ; and it was not till he
was drawn into the world on the tide of his
literary success that he discovered the deficiencies

30 THE DESCENT OF MAN v

in his classification of the sex. Then he learned
with astonishment of the existence of a third
type : the woman who is fond without foolish-
ness and intellectual without earnestness. Not
that the Professor inspired, or sought to inspire,
sentimental emotions ; but he expanded in the
warm atmosphere of personal interest which
some of his new acquaintances contrived to
create about him. It was delightful to talk of
serious things in a setting of frivolity, and to
be personal without being domestic.

Even in this new world, where all subjects
were touched on lightly, and emphasis was the
only indelicacy, the Professor found himself
constrained to endure an occasional reference
to his book. It was unpleasant at first ; but
gradually he slipped into the habit of hearing
it talked of, and grew accustomed to telling
pretty women just how * it had first come to
him.'

Meanwhile the success of the Scientific
Sermons was facilitating his family relations.
His photograph in the Inglenook^ to which the
lady of the note-book had succeeded in append-
ing a vivid interview, carried his fame to circles
inaccessible even to * The Vital Thing ' ; and
the Professor found himself the man of the
hour. He soon grew used to the functions of
the office, and gave out hundred-dollar inter-
views on every subject, from labour-strikes to
Babism, with a frequency which reacted agree-
ably on the domestic exchequer. Presently his

V THE DESCENT OF MAN 31

head began to figure in the advertising pages of
the magazines. Admiring readers learned the
name of the only breakfast-food in use at his
table, of the ink with which * The Vital Thing '
had been written, the soap with which the
author's hands were washed, and the tissue-
builder which fortified him for further eflFort.
These confidences endeared the Professor to
millions of readers, and his head passed in due
course from the magazine and the newspaper
to the biscuit-tin and the chocolate-box.

The Professor, all the while, was leading a
double life. While the author of « The Vital
Thing' reaped the fruits of popular approval,
the aistinguished microscopist continued his
laboratory work unheeded save by the few who
were engaged in the same line of investigations.
His divided allegiance had not hitherto affected
the quality of his work : it seemed to him that
he returned to the laboratory with greater zest
after an afternoon in a drawing-room where
readings from * The Vital Thing ' had alternated
with plantation melodies and tea. He had
long ceased to concern himself with what his
colleagues thought of his literary career. Of
the few whom he frequented, none had referred
to * The Vital Thing * ; and he knew enough
of their lives to guess that their silence mignt
as fairly be attributed to indifference as to
disapproval. They were intensely interested
in the Professor's views on beetles, but they
really cared very little what he thought of the
Almighty.

The Professor entirely shared their feelings,

vr THE DESCENT OF MAN 33

and one of his chief reasons for cultivating the
success which accident had bestowed on him
was that it enabled him to command a greater
range of appliances for his real work. He had
known what it was to lack books and instru-
ments ; and * The Vital Thing * was the magic
wand which summoned them to his aid. For
some time he had been feeling his way along
the edge of a discovery : balancing himself with
professional skill on a plank of hypothesis flung
across an abyss of uncertainty. The conjecture
was the result of years of patient gathering of
facts : its corroboration would take months
more of comparison and classification. But at
the end of the vista victory loomed. The
Professor felt within himself that assurance
of ultimate justification which, to the man of
science, makes a life-time seem the mere comma
between premiss and deduction. But he had
reached the point where his conjectures required
formulation. It was only by giving them
expression, by exposing them to the comment
and criticism of his associates, that he could test
their final value ; and this inner assurance was
confirmed by the only friend whose confidence
he invited.

Professor Pease, the husband of the lady who
had opened Mrs. linyard's eyes to the triumph
of *The Vital Thing,' was the repository of
her husband's scientific experiences. What, he
thought of * The Vital Thing ' had never been
divu^ed ; and he was capable of such vast

34 THE DESCENT OF MAN vi

exclusions that it was quite possible that per-
vasive work had not yet reached him. In any
case, it was not likely to afFect his judgment of
the author's professional capacity.

'You want to put that all in a book,
Linyard,' was Professor Pease's summing-up on
hearing of his friend's projected work. 'I'm
sure you Ve got hold of something big ; but to
see it clearly yourself you ought to outline it
for others. Take my advice — chuck everything
else and get to work to-morrow. It's time you
wrote a oook, anyhow.*

Ifs titne you wrote a booky anyhow I The
words smote the Professor with mingled pain
and ecstasy : he could have wept over their
significance. But his friend's other phrase
reminded him with a start of Harviss. * You

have got hold of a big thing ' it had been the

publisher's first comment on * The Vital Thing.*
But what a world of meaning lay between the
two phrases ! It was the world in which the
powers who fought for the Professor were
destined to wage their final battle ; and for
the moment he had no doubt of the outcome.

* By George, Til do it, Pease ! ' he sjud,
stretching his hand to his friend.

The next day he went to town to see Harviss.
He wanted to ask for an advance on the new
popular edition of *The Vital Thing.' He
had determined to drop a course of supple-
mentary lectures at the University and to give
himself up for a year to his book. To do this,

VI THE DESCENT OF MAN 35

additional funds were necessary ; but thanks to

* The Vital Thing ' they would be forthcoming.

The publisher received him as cordially as
usual ; but the response to his demand was not
as prompt as his previous experience had entitled
him to expect.

* Of course we'll be glad to do what we can
for you, Linyard ; but the fact is, we've decided
to give up the idea of the new edition for the
present.'

* You've given up the new edition ? *

* Why, yes — we've done pretty well by * The
Vital Thing,' and we're inclined to think it's
your turn to do something for it now.*

The Professor looked at him blankly.

* V^Hiat can I do for it ? ' he asked — * what
more ' his accent added.

* Why, put a little new life in it by writing
something else. The secret of perpetual motion
hasn't yet been discovered, you know, and it's
one of the laws of literature that books which
start with a rush are apt to slow down sooner
than the crawlers. We've kept **Thc Vital
Thing " going for eighteen months — but, hang
it, it ain't so vital any more. We simply
couldn't see our way to a new edition. Oh, I
don't say it's dead yet — ^but it's moribund, and
you're the only man who can resuscitate it.'

The Professor continued to stare. * I — what
can I do about it ? ' he stammered.

* Do } Why, write another like it — go it one
better : you know the trick. The public isn't

36 THE DESCENT OF MAN vr

dred of you hy any means ; but you want to
make yourself heard again before anybody else
cuts in. Write another book — ^write two, and
we'll sell them in sets in a box : The Vital Thing
Series. That will take tremendously in the holi-
days. Try and let us have a new volume by
October — I'll be glad to give you a big advance
if you'll sign a contract on that.'

The Professor sat silent : there was too cruel
an irony in the coincidence.

Harviss looked up at him in surprise.

•Well, what's the matter with taking my
advice — ^you're not going out of literature, are
you ? '

The Professor rose from his chair. * No—
I'm going into it,' he said simply.

* Going into it ? *

* I'm going to write a real book — a serious
one.'

•Good Lord! Most people think "The
Vital Thing " 's serious.'

* Yes — but I mean something different.*

* In your old line — beetles and so forth ? '

* Yes,' said the Professor solemnly.
Harviss looked at him with equal gravity.

• Well, I'm sorry for that,' he said, * because it
takes you out of our bailiwick. But I suppose
you've made enough money out of ** The Vital
Thing" to permit yourself a little harmless
amusement. When you want more cash come
back to us — only don't put it off too long, or
some other fellow will have stepped into your

VI THE DESCENT OF MAN 37

shoes. Popularity don*t keep, you know ; and
the hotter the success the quicker the commodity
perishes/

He leaned back, cheerful and sententious,
delivering his axioms with conscious kindliness.

The Professor, who had risen and moved to
the door, turned back with a wavering step.

•When did you say another volume would
have to be ready i ' he faltered.

* I said October — but call it a month later.
You don't need any pushing nowadays.'

* And — you'd have no objection to letting me
have a little advance now ? I need some new
instruments for my real work.'

Harviss extended a cordial hand. * My dear
fellow, that's talking — I'll write the cheque while
you wait ; and I daresay we can start up the
cheap edition of " The Vital Thing " at the same
time, if you'll pledge yourself to give us the book
by November. — How much ? ' he asked, poised
above his cheque-book.

In the street, the Professor stood staring about
him, uncertain and a little dazed.

* After all, it's only putting it off for six
months,' he said to himself; *and I can do
better work when I get my new instruments.'

He smiled and raised his hat to the passing
victoria of a lady in whose copy of * The Vital
Thing ' he had recently written :

L,ahr est etiam ipsa voluftas.

I
I

THE OTHER TWO

Waythorn, on the drawing-room hearth,
waited for his wife to come down to dinner.

It was their first night under his own roof,
and he was surprised at his thrill of boyish
agitation. He was not so old, to be sure — ^his
glass gave him little more than the five-and-
thirty years to which his wife confessed — but he
had fancied himself already in the temperate
zone ; yet here he was listening for her step
with a tender sense of all it symbolized, with
some old trail of verse about the garlanded
nuptial door-posts floating through his enjoy-
ment of the pleasant room and the good dinner
just beyond it.

They had been hastily recalled from their
honeymoon by the illness of Lily Haskett, the
child of Mrs. Waythorn's first marriage. The
little girl, at Waythorn*s desire, had been trans-
ferred to his house on the day of her mother's
wedding, and the doctor, on their arrival, broke
the news that she was ill with typhoid, but
declared that all the symptoms were favourable,
lily could show twelve years of unblemished

42 THE OTHER TWO i

healthy and the case promised to be a light one.
The nurse spoke as reassuringly, and after a
moment of alarm Mrs. Waythorn had adjusted
herself to the situation. She was very fond of
Lily — her affection for the child had perhaps
been her decisive charm in Waythorn*s eyes —
but she had the perfectly balanced nerves which
her little girl had inherited, and no woman ever
wasted less tissue in unproductive worry. Way-
thorn was therefore quite prepared to see her
come in presently, a little late because of a last
look at Lily, but as serene and well-appointed
as if her good-night kiss had been laid on the
brow of health. Her composure was restful to
him ; it acted as ballast to his somewhat un-
stable sensibilities. As he pictured her bending
over the child's bed he thought how soothing
her presence must be in illness : her very step
would prognosticate recovery.

His own life had been a gray one, from
temperament rather than circumstance, and he
had been drawn to her by the imperturbed
gaiety which kept her fresh and elastic at an
age when most women's acti\aties are growing
either slack or febrile. He knew what was said
about her ; for, popular as she was, there had
always been a faint undercurrent of detraction.
When she had appeared in New York, nine or
ten years earlier, as the pretty Mrs. Haskett
whom Gus Varick had unearthed somewhere —
was it in Pittsburg or Utica ? — society, while
promptly accepting her, had reserved the right

I THE OTHER TWO 43

to cast a doubt on its own discrimination.
Enquiry, however, established her undoubted
connection with a socially reigning family, and
explained her recent divorce as the natural
result of a runaway match at seventeen ; and
as nothing was known of Mr. Haskett it was
easy to believe the worst of him.

Alice Haskett's remarriage with Gus Varick
was a passport to the set whose recognition she
coveted, and for a few years the Varicks were
the most popular couple in town. Unfortun-
ately the alliance was brief and stormy, and
this time the husband had his champions. Still,
even Varick*s staunchest supporters admitted
that he was not meant for matrimony, and
Mrs. Varick's grievances were of a nature to
bear the inspection of the New York courts.
A New York divorce is in itself a diploma of
virtue, and in the semi-widowhood of this
second separation Mrs. Varick took on an air
of sanctity, and was allowed to confide her
wrongs to some of the most scrupulous ears in
town. But when it was known that she was to
marry Waythorn there was a momentary re-
action. Her best friends would have preferred
to see her remain in the role of the injured
wife, which was as becoming to her as crape to -
a rosy complexion. True, a decent time had
elaps^, and it was not even suggested that
Waythorn had supplanted his predecessor.
People shook their heads over him, however,
and one grudging friend, to whom he aiffirmed

44 THE OTHER TWO i

•

that he took the step with his eyes open, replied
oracularly : * Yes — and with your ears shut.'

Waythorn could afFord to smile at these
innuendoes. In the Wall Street phrase, he had
* discounted * them. He knew that society has
not yet adapted itself to the consequences of
divorce, and that till the adaptation takes place
every woman who uses the freedom the law
accords her must be her own social justification.
Waythorn had an amused confidence in his
wife's ability to justify herself. His expecta-
tions were fulfilled, and before the wedding
took place Alice Varick's group had rallied
openly to her support. She took it all im-
perturbably: she had a way of surmounting
obstacles without seeming to be aware of them,
and Waythorn looked back with wonder at the
trivialities over which he had worn his nerves
thin. He had the sense of having found refuge
in a richer, warmer nature than his own, and
his satisfaction, at the moment, was hmnorously
summed up in the thought that his wife, when
she had done all she could for Lily, would not be
ashamed to come down and enjoy a good dinner.

The anticipation of such enjoyment was not,
however, the sentiment expressed by Mrs.
Waythorn's charming face when she presently
joined him. Though she had put on her most
engaging tea-gown she had neglected to assume
the smile that went with it, and Waythorn
thought he had never seen her look so nearly
worried.

I THE OTHER TWO 45

* What is it ? ' he asked. • Is anything
wrong with Lily ? *

^No ; IVe just been in and she's still
sleeping/ Mrs. Waythorn hesitated, *But
something tiresome has happened.'

He had taken her two hands, and now
perceived that he was crushing a paper between
them.

* This letter ? '

* Yes — Mr. Haskett has written — I mean his
lawyer has written.'

Waythorn felt himself flush uncomfortably.
He dropped his wife's hands.

* What about } '

* About seeing Lily. You know the
courts '

* Yes, yes,' he interrupted nervously.
Nothing was known about Haskett in New

York. He was vaguely supposed to have
remained in the outer darkness from which his
wife had been rescued, and Waythorn was one
of the few who were aware that he had given
up his business in Utica and followed her to
New York in order to be near his little girl.
In the days of his wooing, Waythorn had often
met Lily on the doorstep, rosy and smiling, on
her way * to see papa.'

' I am so sorry,' Mrs. Waythorn murmured.

He roused himself. •What does he
want ? '

* He wants to see her. You know she goes
to him once a week.'

46 THE OTHER TWO i

* Well — he doesn't expect her to go to him
now, does he ? *

* No— he has heard of her illness ; but he
expects to come here/

'Here?'

Mrs. Waythorn reddened under his gaze.
They looked away from each other.

•I'm afrsud he has the right. . . • You'll
see. . • .' She made a proffer of the letter.

Waythorn moved away with a gesture of
refusal. He stood staring about the softly
lighted room, which a moment before had seemed
so full of bridal intimacy.

* Fm so sorry,' she repeated. * If lily could
have been movwi '

•That's out of the question,' he returned
impatiently.

' I suppose so.'

Her lip was beginning to tremble, and he
felt himself a brute.

* He must come, of course,' he said. * When
is — his day ? '

* I'm afraid — ^to-morrow.'

* Very well. Send a note in the morning.*
The butler entered to announce dinner.
Waythorn turned to his wife. * Come — ^you

must be tired. It's beastly, but try to forget
about it,' he said, drawing her hand through his
arm.

* You're so good, dear. I'll try,' she whis-
pered back.

Her face cleared at once, and as she looked

'■i

THE OTHER TWO

at him across the flowers, between the rosy
candle-shades, he saw her lips waver back into
a smile.

* How pretty everything is I * she sighed
luxuriously.

He turned to the butler. * The champagne
at once, please. Mrs. Waythorn is tired.*

In a moment or two their eyes met above the
sparkling glasses. Her own were quite clear and
imtroubled : he saw that she had obeyed his
injunction and forgotten.

Waythorn, the next morning, went down town
earlier than usual. Haskett was not likely to
come till the afternoon, but the instinct of flight
drove him forth. He meant to stay away all
day — ^he had thoughts of dining at his club. As
his door closed behind him he reflected that
before he opened it again it would have admitted
another man who had as much right to enter it
as himself, and the thought filled him with a
physical repugnance.

He caught the * elevated' at the employes*
hour, and found himself crushed between two
layers of pendulous humanity. At Eighth
Street the man facing him wriggled out, and
another took his place. Waythorn glanced up
and saw that it was Gus Varick. Th<5 men were
so close together that it was impossible to ignore
the smile of recognition on Varick's handsome
overblown face. And after all — why not.?
They had always been on good terms, and
Varick had been divorced before Waythorn's
attentions to his wife began. The two exchanged
a word on the perennial grievance of the con-

II THE OTHER TWO 49

gested trains, and when a seat at their side was
miraculously left empty the instinct of self-
preservation made Waythorn slip into it after
Varick.

The latter drew the stout man's breath of
relief. * Lord — I was beginning to feel like a
pressed flower.' He leaned back, looking un-
concernedly at Waythorn. * Sorry to hear that
Sellers is knocked out again.'

* Sellers.?' echoed Waythorn, starting at his
partner's name.

Varick looked surprised. * You didn't know
he was laid up with the gout ? '

* No. I've been away — I only got back last
night.' Waythorn felt himself reddening in
anticipation of the other's smile.

* Ah — yes ; to be sure. And Sellers's attack
came on two days ago. I'm afraid he's pretty
bad. Very awkward for me, as it happens,
because he was just putting through a rather
important thing for me.'

* Ah ? ' Waythorn wondered vaguely since
when Varick had been dealing in * important
things.' Hitherto he had dabbled only in the
shallow pools of speculation, with which Way-
thorn's office did not usually concern itself.

It occurred to him that Varick might be
talking at random, to relieve the strain of
their propinquity. That strain was becoming
momentarily more apparent to Waythorn, and
when, at Cortlandt Street, he caught sight of an
acquaintance, and had a sudden vision of the

50 THE OTHER TWO ii

picture he and Varick must present to an initiated
eye, he jumped up with a muttered excuse.

* I hope you'll find Sellers better,' s^d Varick
civilly, and he stammered back : ^ If I can be of

any use to you ' and let the departing crowd

sweep him to the platform.

At his office he heard that Sellers was in fact
ill with the gout, and would probably not be
able to leave the house for some weeks.

* I'm sorry it should have happened so, Mr.
Way thorn,' the senior clerk said with af&ble
significance. * Mr. Sellers was very much upset
at the idea of giving you such a lot of extra work
just now.'

* Oh, that's no matter,' said Waythorn hastily.
He secretly welcomed the pressure of additional
business, and was glad to think that, when the
day's work was over, he would have to call at
his partner's on the way home.

He was late for luncheon, and turned in at
the nearest restaurant instead of going to his club.
The place was full, and the waiter hurried him
to the back of the room to capture the only
vacant table. In the cloud or cigar -smoke
Waythorn did not at once distinguish his
neighbours ; but presently, looking about him,
he saw Varick seated a few feet off. This time,
luckily, they were too far apart for conversation,
and Varick, who faced another way, had probably
not even seen him ; but there was an irony in
their renewed nearness.

Varick was said to be fond of good living.

II THE OTHER TWO 51

and as Waythorn sat despatching his hurried
luncheon he looked across half enviously at the
other's leisurely degustation of his meal. When
Waythorn first saw him he had been helping
himself with critical deliberation to a bit of
Camembert at the ideal point of liquefaction,
and now, the cheese removed, he was just pouring
his cafe double from its little two-storied earthen
poL He poured slowly, his ruddy profile bent
above the task, and one be-ringed white hand
steadying the lid of the coflfee-pot ; then he
stretched his other hand to the decanter of cognac
at his elbow, filled a liqueur-glass, took a tentative
sip, and poured the brandy into his coflTee-cup.

Waythorn watched him in a kind of fascina-
tion. What was he thinking of— only of the
flavour of the coflTee and the liqueur ? Had the
morning's meeting left no more trace in his
thoughts than on his face.^ Had his wife so
completely passed out of his life that even this
odd encounter with her present husband, within
a week after her remarriage, was no more than
an incident in his day? And as Waythorn
mused, another idea struck him : had Haskett
ever met Varick as Varick and he had just met ?
The recollection of Haskett perturbed him, and
he rose and left the restaurant taking a circuitous
way out to escape the placid irony of V arick's nod.

It was after seven when Waythorn reached
home. He thought the footman who opened
the door looked at him oddly.

' How is Miss Lily ? ' he asked in haste.

52 THE OTHER TWO ii

* Doing very well, sir. A gendeman-

* Tell Barlow to put ofF dinner for half an
hour,' Waythorn cut him off, hurrying upstairs.

He went straight to his room and dressed
without seeing his wife. When he reached the
drawing-room she was there, fresh and radiant.
Lily's day had been good ; the doctor was not
coming back that evening.

At dinner Waythorn told her of Sellers's
illness and of the resulting complications. She
listened sympathetically, adjuring him not to
let himself be overworked, and asking vague
feminine questions about the routine of the
office. Then she gave him the chronicle of
Lily's day ; quoted the nurse and doctor, and
told him who had called to enquire. He had
never seen her more serene and unruffled. It
struck him, with a curious pang, that she was
very happy in being with him, so happy that she
found a childish pleasure in rehearsing the trivial
incidents of her day.

After dinner they went to the library, and
the servant put the coffee and liqueurs on a low
table before her and left the room. She looked
singularly soft and girlish, in her rosy pale dress,
against the dark leather of one of his bachelor
armchairs. A day earlier the contrast would
have charmed him.

He turned away now, choosing a cigar with
affected deliberation.

^Did Haskett come?' he asked, with his
back to her.

II THE OTHER TWO 53

* Oh, yes — he came/

* You didn't see him, of course ? '

She hesitated a moment. *I let the nurse
see him.*

That was all. There was nothing more to
ask. He swung round toward her, applying a
match to his cigar. Well, the thing was over for
a week, at any rate. He would try not to think
of it. She looked up at him, a triiSe rosier than
usual, with a smile in her eyes.

* Ready for your coffee, dear ? *

He leaned against the mantelpiece, watching
her as she lifted the coffee-pot. The lamplight
struck a gleam from her bracelets and tipped
her soft hair with brightness. How light and
slender she was, and how each gesture flowed
into the next ! She seemed a creature all com-
pact of harmonies. As the thought of Haskett
receded, Waythorn felt himself yielding again to
the joy of possessorship. They were his, those
white hands with their flitting motions, his the
light haze of hair, the lips and eyes. . . .

She set down the coffee-pot, and reaching for
the decanter of cognac, measured off a liqueur-
glass and poured it into his cup.

Waythorn uttered a sudden exclamation.

* What is the matter ? * she said, startled.

* Nothing ; only — I don't take cognac in my
cofiee.

* Oh, how stupid of me,' she cried.

Their eyes met, and she blushed a sudden
agonized red.

Ill

Ten days later, Mr. Sellers, still house-bound,
asked Way thorn to call on his way down town.
The senior partner, with his swaddled foot
propped up by the fire, greeted his associate
with an air of embarrassment.

* Tm sorry, my dear fellow ; IVe got to ask
you to do an awkward thing for me.'

Waythorn waited, and the other went on,
after a pause apparently given to the arrange-
ment of his phrases : * The fact is, when I was
knocked out I had just gone into a rather com-
plicated piece of business for — Gus Varick.'

* Well ? ' said Waythorn, with an attempt to
put him at his ease.

* Well — ^it*s this way : Varick came to me
the day before my attack. He had evidently
had an inside tip from somebody, and had made
about a hundred thousand. He came to me
for advice, and I suggested his going in with
Vanderlyn.*

* Oh, the deuce ! ' Waythorn exclaimed. He
saw in a flash what had happened. The in-
vestment was an alluring one, but required

Ill THE OTHER TWO 55

n^otiation. He listened quietly while Sellers put
the case before him, and, the statement ended,
he said : * You think I ought to see Varick ? *

*rm afraid I can't as yet. The doctor is
obdurate. And this thing can't wait. I hate
to ask. you, but no one else in the office knows
the ins and outs of it*

Waythorn stood silent. He did not care a
farthing for the success of Varick's venture, but
the honour of the office was to be considered,
and he could hardly refuse to oblige his partner.

* Very weU,' he said, * TU do it.'

That afternoon, apprised by telephone, Varick
called at the office. Waythorn, waiting in his
private room, wondered what the others thought
of it. The newspapers, at the time of Mrs.
Waythorn*s marriage, had acquainted their
readers with every detail of her previous matri-
monial ventures, and Waythorn could fancy the
clerks smiling behind Varick's back as he was
ushered in.

Varick bore himself admirably. He was
easy without being undignified, and Waythorn
was conscious of cutting a much less impressive
figure. Varick had no experience of business,
and the talk prolonged itself for nearly an hour
while Waythorn set forth with scrupulous pre-
cision the details of the proposed transaction.

* Tm awfully obliged to you,' Varick said as
he rose. * The fact is I'm not used to having
much money to look after, and I don't want to
make an ass of myself ' He smiled, and

56 THE OTHER TWO iii

Waythorn could not hdp noticing that there
was something pleasant about his smile. 'It
feels uncommonly queer to have enough cash
to pay one's bills. Fd have sold my soul for it
a few years ago ! '

Waythorn winced at the allusion. He had
heard it rumoured that a lack of funds had
been one of the determining causes of the
Varick separation, but it did not occur to him
that Varick's words were intentional. It seemed
more likely that the desire to keep clear of
embarrassing topics had fatally drawn him into
one. Waythorn did not wish to be outdone in
civility.

* We'll do the best we can for you/ he said.
' I think this is a good thing you're in.'

*Oh, I'm sure it's immense. It's awfully
good of you ' Varick broke off, em-
barrassed. ' I suppose the thing's settled now

-but if ' ^^ ^

^ If anything happens before Sellers is about,
I'll see you again,' said Waythorn quietly. He
was glad, in the end, to appear the more self-
possessed of the two.

• ••.••
The course of Lily's illness ran smooth, and

as the days passed Waythorn grew used to the
idea of Haskett's weekly visit The first time
the day came round, he stayed out late, and
questioned his wife as to the visit on his return.
She replied at once that Haskett had merely
seen the nurse downstairs, as the doctor did not

III THE OTHER TWO 57

wish any one in the child's sick-room till after
the crisis.

The following week Waythorn was again
conscious of the recurrence of the day, but had
forgotten it by the time he came home to
dinner. The crisis of the disease came a few
days later, with a rapid decline of fever, and
the little girl was pronounced out of danger.
In the rejoicing which ensued, the thought of
Haskett passed out of Waythorn's mind, and
one afternoon, letting himself into the house with
a latch-key, he went straight to his library without
noticing a shabby hat and umbrella in the hall.

In the library he found a small efFaced-
looking man with a thinnish gray beard sitting
on the edge of a chain The stranger might
have been a piano -tuner, or one of those
mysteriously efficient persons who are summoned
in emergencies to adjust some detail of the
domestic machinery. He blinked at Waythorn
through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles and
said mildly : * Mr. Waythorn, I presume ? I
am Lily's father.'

Waythorn flushed. * Oh ' he stammered

uncomfortably. He broke off, disliking to
appear rude. Inwardly he was trying to adjust
the actual Haskett to the image of him pro-
jected by his wife's reminiscences. Waythorn
had been allowed to infer that Alice's first
husband was a brute.

* I am sorry to intrude,' said Haskett, with
his over-the-counter politeness.

58 THE OTHER TWO iii

•Don't mention it/ returned Waythom,
collecting himself. *I suppose the nurse has
been told ? *

*1 presume so. I can wait/ ssdd Haskett.
He had a resigned way of speaking, as though
life had worn down his natural powers of re-
sistance.

Waythom stood on the threshold, nervously
pulling off his gloves.

* I'm sorry you've been detained. I will send
for the nurse/ he said ; and as he opened the
door he added with an effort : ^ I'm glad we
can give you a good report of lily.' He winced
as the we slipped out, but Haskett seemed not
to notice it.

* Thank you, Mr. Waythorn. It's been an
anxious time for me.'

* Ah, well, that's past. Soon she'll be able to
go to you.' Waythorn nodded and passed out.

In his own room he flung himself down with
a groan. He hated the womanish sensibility
which made him suflFer so acutely from the
grotesque chances of life. He had known when
he married that his wife's former husbands were
both living, and that amid the multiplied con-
tacts of modern existence there were a thousand
chances to one that he would run against one
or the other, yet he found himself as much dis-
turbed by his brief encounter with Haskett as
though the law had not obligingly removed all
difficulties in the way of their meeting.

Waythorn sprang up and began to pace the

Ill THE OTHER TWO 59

room nervously. He had not suffered half as
much from his two meetings with Varick. It
was Haskett's presence in his own house that
made the situation so intolerable. He stood
still, hearing steps in the passage.

* This way, please,* he heard the nurse say.
Haskett was being taken upstairs, then : not
a corner of the house but was open to him.
Waythorn dropped into another chair, staring
vaguely ahead of him. On his dressing-table
stood a photograph of Alice, taken when he
had first known her. She was Alice Varick
then — ^how fine and exquisite he had thought
her! Those were Varick's pearls about her
neck. At Waythorn's instance they had been
returned before her marriage. Had Haskett
ever given her any trinkets — and what had
become of them, Waythorn wondered ? He
realized suddenly that he knew very little of
Haskett's past or present situation ; but from
the man's appearance and manner of speech he
could reconstruct with curious precision the
surroundings of Alice's first marriage. And it
startled him to think that she had, in the back-
ground of her life, a phase of existence so
difierent from anything with which he had con-
nected her. Varick, whatever his faults, was a
gentleman, in the conventional, traditional sense
of the term : the sense which at that moment
seemed, oddly enough, to have most meaning
to Waythorn. He and Varick had the same
social habits, spoke the same language, imder-

6o THE OTHER TWO iii

stood the same allusions. But this other man
... it was grotesquely uppermost in Way-
thorn's mind that Haskett had worn SLjnzdc^^^
tie attached with an elastic. Why should that
ridiculous detail symboHze the whole man ?
Waythorn was exasperated by his own paltri-
ness, but the fact of the tie expanded, forced
itself on him, became as it were the key to
Alice's past. He could see her, as Mrs. Haskett,
sitting in a ^ front parlour ' furnished in plush,
with a pianola, and a copy of * Ben Hur ' on
the centre-table. He could see her going to
the theatre with Haskett — or perhaps even to
a • Church Sociable ' — she in a * picture hat ' and
Haskett in a black frock-coat, a little creased,
with the made-up tie on an elastic. On the way
home they would stop and look at the illumin-
ated shop-windows, lingering over the photo-
graphs of New York actresses. On Sunday
afternoons Haskett would take her for a walk,
pushing Lily ahead of them in a white enamelled
perambulator, and Waythorn had a vision of the
people they would stop and talk to. He could
fancy how pretty Alice must have looked, in a
dress adroitly constructed from the hints of a
New York fashion-paper, and how she must
have looked down on the other women, chafing
at her life, and secretly feeling that she belonged
in a bigger place.

For the moment his foremost thought was
one of wonder at the way in which she had shed
the phase of existence which her marriage with

Ill THE OTHER TWO 6i

Haskett implied. It was as if her whole aspect, ,
every gesture, every inflection, every allusion,
were a studied negation of that period of her
life. If she had denied being married to Haskett
she could hardly have stood more convicted of ^
duplicity than in this obliteration of the self ^
which had been his wife. v

Waythorn started up, checking himself in
the analysis of her motives. What right had he
to create a fantastic effigy of her and then pass
judgment on it ? She had spoken vaguely of
her first marriage as unhappy, had hinted, with
becoming reticence, that Haskett had wrought
havoc among her young illusions. ... It was
a pity for Waythorn's peace of mind that
Haskett*s very inoffensiveness shed a new light
on the nature of those illusions. A man would
rather think that his wife has been brutalized by
her first husband than that the process has been
reversed.

*Mr. Waythorn, I don't like that French
governess of Lily's.*

Haskett, subdued and apologetic, stood before
Waythorn in the library, revolving his shabby
hat in his hand.

Waythorn, surprised in his armchair over
the evening paper, stared back perplexedly at
his visitor.

* You'll excuse my asking to see you,' Haskett
continued. 'But this is my last visit, and I
thought if I could have a word with you it
would be a better way than writing to Mrs.
Waythorn's lawyer.'

Waythorn rose uneasily. He did not like
the French governess either ; but that was
irrelevant.

* I am not so sure of that,' he returned stiffly ;
* but since you wish it I will give your message
to — my wife.' He always hesitated over the
possessive pronoun in addressing Haskett.

The latter sighed. * I don t know as that
will help much. She didn't like it when I spoke
to her.'

IV THE OTHER TWO 63

Waythorn turned red. • When did you see
her ? ' he asked.

* Not since the first day I came to see lily
— right after she was taken sick. I remarked
to her then that I didn't like the governess.'

Waythorn made no answer. He remem-
bered distinctly that, after that first visit, he
had asked his wife if she had seen Haskett.
She had lied to him then, but she had respected
his wishes since ; and the incident cast a curious
light on her character. He was sure she would
not have seen Haskett that first day if she had
divined that Waythorn would object, and the
fact that she did not divine it was almost as
disagreeable to the latter as the discovery that
she had lied to him.

*I don't like the woman,* Haskett was
repeating with mild persistency. *She ain't
straight, Mr. Waythorn — she'll teach the child
to be underhand. I've noticed a change in
lily — she's too anxious to please — and she
don't always tell the truth. She used to be the

straightest child, Mr. Waythorn ' He

broke oflF, his voice a little thick. •Not but
what I want her to have a stylish education,' he
ended.

Waythorn was touched. •I'm sorry, Mr.
Haskett ; but frankly, I don't quite see what
I can do.'

Haskett hesitated. Then he laid his hat on
the table, and advanced to the hearth-rug, on
which Waythorn was standing. There was

64 THE OTHER TWO iv

nothing aggressive in his manner, but he had
the solemnity of a timid man resolved on a
decisive measure.

* There's just one thing you can do, Mr.
Waythorn/ he said. *You can remind Mrs.
Waythorn that, by the decree of the courts, I
am entitled to have a voice in Lily's bringing
up.' He paused, and went on more depre-
catingly : * I'm not the kind to talk about
enforcing my rights, Mr. Waythorn. I don't
know as I think a man is entitled to rights he
hasn't known how to hold on to ; but this
business of the child is different. I've never let
go there — and I never mean to.'

• •.•«.
The scene left Waythorn deeply shaken.

Shamefacedly, in indirect ways, he had been
finding out about Haskett ; and all that he had
learned was favourable. The little man, in
order to be near his daughter, had sold out his
share in a profitable business in Utica, and
accepted a modest clerkship in a New York
manufacturing house. He boarded in a shabby
street and had few acquaintances. His passion
for lily filled his life. Waythorn felt that this
exploration of Haskett was like groping about
with a dark-lantern in his wife's past ; but he
saw now that there were recesses his lantern
had not explored. He had never enquired into
the exact circumstances of his wife's first matri-
monial rupture. On the surface all had been
fair. It was she who had obtained the divorce.

IV THE OTHER TWO 65

and the court had given her the child. But
Waythorn knew how many ambiguities such
a verdict might cover. The mere fact that
Haskett retained a right over his daughter
implied an unsuspected compromise. Way-
thorn was an idealist. He always refused to
recognize unpleasant contingencies till he found
himself confronted with them, and then he saw
them followed by a spectral train of consequences.
His next days were thus haunted, and he deter-
mined to try to lay the ghosts by conjuring
them up in Ws wife's presence.

When he repeated Haskett's request a flame
of anger passed over her face ; but she subdued
it instantly and spoke with a slight quiver of
outraged motherhood.

* It is very ungentlemanly of him/ she said.
The word grated on Waythorn. •That is

neither here nor there. It's a bare question of
rights.'

She murmured : * It's not as if he could ever
be a help to Lily *

Waythorn flushed. This was even less to
his taste. * The question is,' he repeated, ' what
authority has he over her ? '

She looked downward, twisting herself a little
in her seat. *I am willing to see him — I thought
you objected,' she faltered.

In a flash he understood that she knew the
extent of Haskett's claims. Perhaps it was not
the first time she had resisted them.

* My objecting has nothing to do with it,'

66 THE OTHER TWO iv

he said coldly ; * if Haskett has a right to be
consulted you must consult him/

She burst into tears, and he saw that she
expected him to regard her as a victim.

Haskett did not abuse his rights. Waythorn
had felt miserably sure that he would not. But
the governess was dismissed, and from time to
time the little man demanded an interview with
Alice. After the first outburst she accepted the
situation with her usual adaptab^ity. Haskett
had once reminded Waythorn of^the piano-
tuner, and Mrs. Waythorn, after a month or
two, appeared to class him with that domestic
familiar. Waythorn could not but respect the
father*s tenacity. At first he had tried to
cultivate the suspicion that Haskett might be
^up to' something, that he had an object in
securing a foothold in the house. But in his
heart Waythorn was sure of Haskett's single-
mindedness; he even guessed in the latter a
mild contempt for such advantages as his
relation with the Waythorns might offer.
Haskett's sincerity of purpose made him in-
vulnerable, and his successor had to accept him
as a lien on the property.

• •.•••

Mr. Sellers was sent to Europe to recover
from his gout, and Vmck's affairs hung on
Waythorn's hands. The negotiations were pro-
longed and complicated ; they necessitated fre-
quent conferences between the two men, and
the interests of the firm forbade Waythorn's

IV THE OTHER TWO 67

suggesting that his client should transfer his
business to another office.

Varick appeared well in the transaction. In
moments of relaxation his coarse streak appeared,
and Waythorn dreaded his geniality ; but in the
office he was concise and clear-headed, with a
flattering deference to Waythorn's judgment.
Their business relations being so afllably estab-
lished, it would have been absurd for the two
men to ignore each other in society. The first
time they met in a drawing-room, Varick took
up their intercourse in the same easy key, and his
hostesses grateful glance obliged Waythorn to
respond to it. After that they ran across each
other frequently, and one evening at a ball
Waythorn, wandering through the remoter
rooms, came upon Varick seated beside his
wife. She coloured a little, and faltered in what
she was saying ; but Varick nodded to Waythorn
without rising, and the latter strolled on.

In the carriage, on the way home, he broke out
nervously : *I didn't know you spoke to Varick.*

Her voice trembled a little. * It's the first
time — he happened to be standing near me ;
I didn't know what to do. It's so awkward,
meeting everywhere — and he said you had been
very kind about some business.'

* That's diflFerent,' said Waythorn.

She paused a moment. * I'll do just as you
wish,' she returned pliantly. *I thought it
would be less awkward to speak to him when
we meet.*

68 THE OTHER TWO iv

Her pliancy was beginning to sicken him.
Had she really no will of her own — no theory
about her relation to these men ? She had
accepted Haskett — did she mean to accept
Varick ? It was • less awkward/ as she had
said, and her instinct was to evade difficulties or
: to circumvent them. With sudden vividness
Waythorn saw how the instinct had developed.
She was ' as easy as an old shoe ' — a shoe that
too many feet had worn. Her elasticity was
the result of tension in too many different ^

directions. Alice Haskett — Alice Varick —
Alice Waythorn — she had been each in turn,
and had left hanging to each name a little of
her privacy, a little of her personality, a little
of the inmost self where the unknown god
abides. ^

*Yes — it's better to speak to Varick/ said j

Waythorn wearily.

The winter wore on, and society took advan-
tage of the Waythorns' acceptance of Varick.
Harassed hostesses were grateful to them for
bridging over a social difficulty, and Mrs.
Waythorn was held up as a miracle of good
taste. Some experimental spirits could nof
resist the diversion of throwing Varick and his
former wife together, and there were those who
thought he found a zest in the propinquity.
But Mrs. Waythorn's conduct remained irre-
proachable. She neither avoided Varick nor
sought him out. Even Waythorn could not
but admit that she had discovered the solution
of the newest social problem.

He had married her without giving much
thought to that problem. He had fancied that
a woman can shed her past like a man. But
now he saw that Alice was bound to hers both
by the circumstances which forced her into
continued relation with it, and by the traces it
had left on her nature. With grim irony
Waythorn compared himself to a member of a
syndicate. He held so many shares in his wife's

70 THE OTHER TWO v

personality and his predecessors were his part-
ners in the business. If there had been any
element of passion in the transaction he would
have felt less deteriorated by it. The fact that
Alice took her change of husbands like a change
of weather reduced the situation to mediocrity.
He could have forgiven her for blunders, for
excesses ; for resisting Haskett, for yielding to
Varick ; for anything but her acquiescence and
her tact. She reminded him of a juggler tossing
knives ; but the knives were blunt and she
knew they would never cut her.

And then, gradually, habit formed a pro-
tecting surface for his sensibilities. If he paid
for each day's comfort with the small change of
his illusions, he grew daily to value the comfort
more and set less store upon the coin. He had
drifted into a dulling propinquity with Haskett
and Varick and he took refuge in the cheap
revenge of satirizing the situation. He even
began to reckon up the advantages which
accrued from it, to ask himself if it were not
better to own a third of a wife who knew how
to make a man happy than a whole one who
had lacked opportunity to acquire the art. For
it was an art, and made up, like all others, of
concessions, eliminations and embellishments ;
of lights judiciously thrown and shadows skil-
fully softened. His wife knew exactly how to
manage the lights, and he knew exactly to what
training she owed her skill. He even tried to
trace the source of his obligations, to discrimi-

V THE OTHER TWO 71

nate between the influences which had combined
to produce his domestic happiness : he perceived
that Haskett's commonness had made Alice
worship good breeding, while Varick's liberal
construction of the marriage bond had taught
her to value the conjugal virtues ; so that he
was directly indebted to his predecessors for
the devotion which made his life easy if not
inspiring.

From this phase he passed into that of com-
plete acceptance. He ceased to satirize himself
because time dulled the irony of the situation
and the joke lost its humour with its sting.
Even the sight of Haskett's hat on the hall table
had ceased to touch the springs of epigram. The
hat was often seen there now, for it had been
decided that it was better for Lily's father to
visit her than for the little girl to go to his
boarding-house. Waythorn, having acquiesced
in this arrangement, had been surprised to find
how little difference it made. Haskett was never
obtrusive, and the few visitors who met him on
the stairs were unaware of his identity. Way-
thorn did not know how often he saw Alice, but
with himself Haskett was seldom in contact.

One afternoon, however, he learned on enter-
ing that Lily*s father was waiting to see him.
In the library he found Haskett occupying a
chjur in his usual provisional way. Waythorn
always felt grateful to him for not leaning back.

*I hope you'll excuse me, Mr. Waythorn,'
he said, rising. * I wanted to see Mrs. Waythorn

72 THE OTHER TWO v

about Lily, and your man asked me to wait here
till she came in/

* Of course/ said Waythom, remembering
that a sudden leak had that morning given over
the drawing-room to the plumbers.

He opened his cigar-case and held it out to
his visitor, and Haskett's acceptance seemed to
mark a fresh stage in their intercourse. The
spring evening was chilly, and Waythorn invited
his guest to draw up his chair to the fire. He
meant to find an excuse to leave Haskett in a
moment ; but he was tired and cold, and after
all the little man no longer jarred on him.

The two were enclosed in the intimacy of
their blended cigar-smoke when the door opened
and Varick walked into the room. Waythorn
rose abrupdy. It was the first time that Varick
had come to the house, and the surprise of seeing
him, combined with the singular inopportune-
ness of his arrival, gave a new edge to Way thorn*s
blunted sensibilities. He stared at his visitor
without speaking.

Varick seemed too preoccupied to notice his
host's embarrassment

* My dear fellow,' he exclaimed in his most
expansive tone, • I must apologize for tumbling
in on you in this way, but I was too late to catch
you down town, and so I thought '

He stopped short, catching sight of Haskett,
and his sanguine colour deepened to a flush which
spread vividly under his scant blond hair. But
in a moment he recovered himself and nodded

V THE OTHER TWO 73

slightly. Haskett returned the bow in silence,
and Waythorn was still groping for speech when
the footman came in carrying a tea-table.

The intrusion offered a welcome vent to
Waythorn*s nerves. * What the deuce are you
bringing this here for ? * he said sharply.

* I beg your pardon, sir, but the plumbers are
still in the drawing-room, and Mrs. Waythorn
said she would have tea in the library.' The
footman's perfectly respectful tone implied a
reflection on Waythorn's reasonableness.

*Oh, very well,' said the latter resignedly,
and the footman proceeded to open the folding
tea-table and set out its complicated appoint-
ments. While this interminable process con-
tinued the three men stood motionless, watching
it with a fascinated stare, till Waythorn, to break
the silence, said to Varick : * Won't you have
a cigar ? *

He held out the case he had just tendered
to Haskett, and Varick helped himself with a
smile. Waythorn looked about for a match,
and finding none, proffered a light from his own
cigar. Haskett, in the background, held his
ground mildly, examining his cigar-tip now and
then, and stepping forward at the right moment
to knock its ashes into the fire.

The footman at last withdrew, and Varick
immediately began : * If I could just say half a
word to you about this business '

* Certainly,' stammered Waythorn ; ^ in the
dining-room *

74 THE OTHER TWO v

But as he placed his hand on the door it
opened from without, and his wife appeared on
the threshold.

She came in fresh and smiling, in her street
dress and hat, shedding a fragrance from the boa
which she loosened in advancing.

* Shall we have tea in here, dear ? ' she began ;
and then she caught sight of Varick. Her smile
deepened, veUing a slight tremor of surprise.

* Why, how do you do ? ' she said with a
distinct note of pleasure.

As she shook hands with Varick she saw
Haskett standing behind him. Her smile faded
for a moment, but she recalled it quickly, with
a scarcely perceptible side-glance at Waydiorn.

* How do you do, Mr. Haskett ? ' she said,
and shook hands with him a shade less cordially.

The three men stood awkwardly before her,
till Varick, always the most self-possessed, dashed
into an explanatory phrase.

< We — I had to see Waythorn a moment on
business,' he stammered, brick-red from chin to
nape.

Haskett stepped forward with his air of mild
obstinacy. * I am sorry to intrude ; but you

appointed five o'clock * he directed his

resigned glance to the timepiece on the mantel.

She swept aside their embarrassment with a
charming gesture of hospitality.

* I'm so sorry — I'm always late ; but the
afternoon was so lovely.' She stood drawing
off her gloves, propitiatory and graceful, diffiis-

V THE OTHER TWO 75

ing about her a sense of ease and familiarity in
which the situation lost its grotesqueness. ^ But
before talking business/ she added brightly,
* Fm sure every one wants a cup of tea/

She dropped into her low chair by the tea-
table, and the two visitors, as if drawn by her
smile, advanced to receive the cups she held out.

She glanced about for Waythorn, and he
took the third cup with a laugh.

EXPIATION

* I CAN never/ said Mrs. Fetherel, * hear the bell
ring without a shudder/

lier unruffled aspect — ^she was the kind of
woman whose emotions never communicate
themselves to her clothes — and the conventional
background of the New York drawing-room,
with its pervading implication of an imminent
tea-trav and of an atmosphere in which the
social mnctions have become purely reflex, lent
to her declaration a relief not lost on her cousin
Mrs, Clinch, who, from the other side of the
fireplace, agreed, with a glance at the clock, that
it was the hour for bores.

* Bores ! ' cried Mrs. Fetherel impatiently.
^ If I shuddered at themy I should have a chronic
ague !'

She leaned forward and laid a sparkling finger
on her cousin's shabby black knee. * I mean the
newspaper dippings.' she whispered

Mrs. Clinch returned a glance of mteUigence.

* They've begun already ? '

* Not yet ; but they're sure to now, at any
minute, my publisher tells me.'

8o EXPIATION I

Mrs. Fetherd's look of apprehension sat
oddly on her small features, which had an air
of neat symmetry somehow suggestive of being
set in order every morning by the housemaid.
Some one (there were rumours that it was her
cousin) had once said that Paula Fetherel would
have been very pretty if she hadn't looked so
like a moral axiom in a copy-book hand.

Mrs. Clinch received her confidence with a
smile. * Well/ she said, * I suppose you were
prepared for the consequences of authorship ? '

Mrs. Fetherel blushed brightly. *It isn't
their coming,* she owned — *it*s their coming

• Now ?;

* The Bishop's in town.*

Mrs. Clinch leaned back and shaped her lips
to a whistie which deflected in a laugh. * Well 1 *
she said.

* You see ! * Mrs. Fetherel triumphed.

* Well — weren*t you prepared for the Bishop?*
^ Not now — at least, I hadn*t thought of his

seeing the clippings.*

* And why should he see them ? *

* Bella — worCt you understand ? It*s John.*
^John?*

^ Who has taken the most unexpected tone —
one might almost say out of perversity.*

* Oh, perversity ' Mrs. Clinch murmured,

observing her cousin between lids wrinkled by
amusement. * What tone has John taken ? *

Mrs. Fetherel threw out her answer with the

I EXPIATION 8 1

desperate gesture of a woman who lays bare the
traces of a marital fist. *The tone of being
proud of my book.'

The measure of Mrs. Clinch's enjoyment
overflowed in laughter.

* Oh, you may laugh,* Mrs. Fetherel insisted,
*but it's no joke to me. In the first place,
John's liking the book is so— so — such a false
note — ^it puts me in such a ridiculous position ;
and then it has set him watching for the reviews
— ^who would ever have suspected John of know-
ing that books were reviewed? Why, he's
actually found out about the Clipping Bureau,
and whenever the postman rings I hear John
rush Out of the library to see if there are any
yellow envelopes. Of course, when they do
come he'll bring them into the drawing-room
and read them aloud to everybody who happens
to be here — and the Bishop is sure to happen to
be here ! '

Mrs. Clinch repressed her amusement. * The
picture you draw is a lurid one,' she conceded,
* but your modesty strikes me as abnormal,
especially in an author. The chances are that
some of the clippings will be rather pleasant
reading. The critics are not all Union men.'

Mrs. Fetherel stared. * Union men ? '

*Well, I mean they don't all belong to the
well-known Society-for - the -Persecution - of-
Rising- Authors. Some of them have even been
known to defy its regulations and say a good
word for a new writer.'

82 EXPIATION I

*Oh, I dare say,* said Mrs. Fetherel, with
the laugh her cousin's epigram exacted. ' But
you don't quite see my point. I'm not at all
nervous about the success of my book — my
publisher tells me I have no need to be — but I
am afraid of its being a succis de scandale^

* Mercy ! ' said IMts. Clinch, sitting up.

The butler and footman at this moment
appeared with the tea-tray, and when they had
withdrawn, Mrs. Fetherel, bending her brightly
rippled head above the kettle, continued in a
murmur of avowal : * The title, even, is a kind
of challenge.'

* " Fast and Loose," ' Mrs. Clinch mused.
* Yes, it ought to take.*

^ I didn't choose it for that reason ! * the
author protested. *I should have preferred
something quieter — less pronounced ; but I
was determined not to shirk the responsibility
of what 1 had written. I want people to know
beforehand exactly what kind of book they are
buying.'

* Well,' said Mrs. Clinch, * that's a degree of
conscientiousness that I've never met with before.
So few books fulfil the promise of their titles
that experienced readers never expect the fare
to come up to the menu.*

* " Fast and Loose " will be no disappoint-
ment on that score,* her cousin significantly
returned. * I've handled the subject without
gloves. I've called a spade a spade.*

* You simply make my mouth water ! And

I EXPIATION. 83

to think I haven't been able to read it yet
because every spare minute of my time has been
given to correcting the proofs of "How the
Birds Keep Christmas " ! There's an instance of
the hardships of an author's life ! '

Mrs. Fetherel's eye clouded. * Don't joke,
Bella, please. I suppose to experienced authors
there's always something absurd in the nervous-
ness of a new writer, but in my case so much is
at stake ; I've put so much of myself into this
book and I'm so afraid of being misunderstood
... of being, as it were, in advance of my
time . . . like poor Flaubert. ... I know
you'll think me ridiculous . . . and if only my
own reputation were at stake, I should never
give it a thought . . . but the idea of dragging
John's name through the mire . . .'

Mrs. Clinch, who had risen and gathered her
cloak about her, stood surveying from her genial
height her cousin's agitated countenance.

* Why did you use John's name, then ? '

* That's another of my difficulties ! I had to.
There would have been no merit in publishing
such a book under an assumed name ; it would
have been an act of moral cowardice. " Fast
and Loose " is not an ordinary novel. A writer
who dares to show up the hoUowness of social
conventions must have the courage of her con-
victions and be willing to accept the conse-
quences of defying society. Can you imagine
Ibsen or Tolstoi writing under a false name ? '
Mrs. Fetherel lifted a tragic eye to her cousin.

84 EXPIATION i

* You don't know, Bella, how often Tve envied
you since I be^an to write. I used to wonder
sometimes — you won t mmd my saymg so r —
why, with all yovu- cleverness, you hadn't taken
up some more exciting subject than natural
history ; but I sec now how wise you were.
Whatever happens, you will never be denounced
by the press ! *

* Is that what you're afraid of? ' asked Mrs.
Clinch, as she grasped the bulging umbrella
which rested against her chair. * My dear, if
I had ever had the good luck to be denounced
by the press, my brougham would be waiting
at the door for me at this very moment, and
I shouldn't have had to ruin this umbrella by
using it in the rain. Why, you innocent, if I'd
ever felt the slightest aptitude for showing up
social conventions, do you suppose I should
waste my time writing "Nests Ajar" and
" How to Smell the Flowers " ? There's a
fairly steady demand for pseudo-science and
colloquial ornithology, but it's nothing, simply
nothing, to the ravenous call for attacks on
social institutions — especially by those inside the
institutions ! '

There was often, to her cousin, a lack
of taste in Mrs. Clinch's pleasantries, and on
this occasion they seemed more than usually
irrelevant.

*"Fast and Loose" was not written with
the idea of a large sale.'

Mrs. Clinch was unperturbed. * Perhaps

I EXPIATION 85

that's just as well/ she returned with a philo-
sophic shrug. *The surprise will be all the
pleasanter, I mean. For of course it*s going to
sell tremendously ; especially if you can get the
press to denounce it.*

'Bella, how can you? I sometimes think
you say such things expressly to tease me ; and
yet I should think you of all women would
understand my purpose in writing such a book.
It has always seemed to me that the message I
had to deliver was not for myself alone, but for
all the other women in the world who have felt
the hollowness of our social shams, the ignominy
of bowing down to the idols of the market, but
have lacked either the courage or the power
to proclaim their independence ; and I have
fancied, Bella dear, that, however severely society
might punish me for revealing its weaknesses,
I could count on the sympathy of those who,
like you * — Mrs. FethereFs voice sank — * have
passed through the deep waters.*

Mrs. Clinch gave herself a kind of canine
shake, as though to free her ample shoulders
from any drop of the element she was supposed
to have traversed.

*Oh, call them muddy rather than deep,'
she returned ; * and you'll find, my dear, that
women who've had any wading to do are rather
shy of stirring up mud. It sticks — especially
on white clothes.'

Mrs. Fetherel lifted an undaunted brow.
* I'm not afraid,' she proclaimed ; and at the

86 EXPIATION i

same instant she dropped her tea-spoon with a
clatter and shrank back into her seat. ^ There's
the bell/ she exclaimed, * and I know it's the
Bishop!'

It was in fact the Bishop of Ossining, who,
impressively announced by Mrs. Fetherel's
butler, now made an entry that may best be
described as not inadequate to the expectations
the announcement raised. The Bishop always
entered a room well ; but, when unannounced, or
preceded by a Low Church butler who gave him
his surname, his appearance lacked the impress-
iveness conferred on it by the due specification
of his diocesan dignity. The Bishop was very
fond of his niece Mrs. Fetherel, and one of the
traits he most valued in her was the possession of
a butler who knew how to announce a bishop.

Mrs. Clinch was also his niece ; but, aside
from the fact that she possessed no butler at all,
she had laid herself open to her uncle's criticism
by writing insignificant little books which had a
way of going into five or ten editions, while the
fruits of his own episcopal leisure — * The Wail
of Jonah * (twenty cantos in blank verse), and
* Through a Glass Brightly ; or, How to Raise
Funds for a Memorial Window * — ^inexplicably
languished on the back shelves of a publisher
noted for his dexterity in pushing * devotional
goods.' Even this indiscretion the Bishop
might, however, have condoned, had his niece
thought fit to turn to him for support and
advice at the painful juncture of her history

I EXPIATION 87

when, in her own words, it became necessary for
her to invite Mr. Clinch to look out for another
situation. Mr. Clinch's misconduct was of the
kind especially designed by Providence to test
the fortitude of a Christian wife and mother,
and the Bishop was absolutely distended with
seasonable advice and edification ; so that when
Bella met his tentative exhortations with the curt
remark that she preferred to do her own house-
cleaning unassisted, her uncle's grief at her
ingratitude was not untempered with sympathy
for Mr. Clinch.

It is not surpri^ng, therefore, that the
Bishop's warmest greetings were always reserved
for Mrs. Fetherel ; and on this occasion Mrs.
Clinch thought she detected, in the salutation
which fell to her share, a pronounced suggestion
that her own presence was superfluous — a hint
which she took with her usual imperturbable
good humour.

Left alone with the Bishop, Mrs, Fcthcrel
sought the nearest refuge from conversation by
offering him a cup of tea. The Bishop accepted
with the preoccupied air of a man to whom, for
the moment, tea is but a subordinate incident.
Mrs. Fetherel's nervousness increased ; and
knowing that the surest way of distracting
attention from one's own affairs is to affect an
interest in those of one's companion, she hastily
asked if her uncle had come to town on business.

* On business — yes ' said the Bishop in

an impressive tone. * I had to see my publisher,
who has been behaving rather unsatisfactorily in
regard to my last book.'

* Ah — your last book ?' faltered Mrs. Fetherel,
with a sickening sense of her inability to recall
the name or nature of the work in question,
and a mental vow never again to be caught in
such ignorance of a colleague's productions.

• " Through a Glass Brightly," ' the Bishop
explained, with an emphasis which revealed his
detection of her predicament. * You may re-
member that I sent you a copy last Christmas ? '

II EXPIATION 89

* Of course I do ! * Mrs. Fetherel brightened.
*It was that delightful story of the poor
consumptive girl who had no money, and two
little brothers to support '

* Sisters — idiot sisters * the Bishop

gloomily corrected.

^ I mean sisters ; and who managed to collect
money enough to put up a beautiful memorial
window to her — ^her grandfather, whom she had
never seen '

*But whose sermons had been her chief
consolation and support during her long struggle
with poverty and disease.' The Bishop gave
the satisfied sigh of the workman who reviews
his completed task. * A touching subject, surely ;
and I believe I did it justice ; at least, so my
friends assured me.'

* Why, yes — I remember there was a splendid
review of it in the Reredos ! ' cried Mrs.
Fetherel, moved by the incipient instinct of
reciprocity.

*Yes — by my dear friend Mrs. GoUingcr,
whose husband, the late Dean GoUinger, was
under very particular obUgations to me. Mrs.
Gollinger is a woman of rare literary acumen,
and her praise of my book was unqualified ; but
the public wants more highly seasoned fare, and
the approval of a thoughtful churchwoman
carries less weight than the sensational comments
of an illiterate journalist.' The Bishop bent a
meditative eye on his spotless gaiters. * At the
risk of horrifying you, my dear,' he added, with

90 EXPIATION II

a slight laugh, * I will confide to you that my
best chance of a popular success would be to
have my book denounced by the press.'

• Denounced ? * gasped Mrs. Fetherd. * On
what ground ? '

* On the ground of immorality.' The Bishop
evaded her startled gaze. ^Such a thing is
inconceivable to you, of course ; but I am only
repeating what my publisher tdls me. If, for
instance, a critic could be induced — I mean, if a
critic were to be found, who called in question
the morality of my heroine in sacrificing her
own health and that of her idiot sisters in order
to put up a memorial window to her grand-
father, it would probably raise a general contro-
versy in the newspapers, and I might count on
a sale of ten or fifteen thousand within the next
year. If he described her as morbid or deca-
dent, it might even run to twenty thousand ;
but that is more than I permit myself to hope.
In fact I should be satisfied with any general
charge of immorality.* The Bishop sighed
again. * I need hardly tell you that I am actuated
by no mere literary ambition. Those whose
opinion I most value have assured me that the
book is not without merit ; but, though it does
not become me to dispute their veroict, I can
truly say that my vanity as an author is not at
stake. I have, however, a special reason for
wishing to increase the circulation of " Through
a Glass Brightly ** ; it was written for a purpose
— z purpose I have greatly at heart ■ '

11 EXPIATION 91

*I know,* cried his niece sympathetically.

* The chantry window ? '

* Is still empty, alas ! and I had great hopes
that, under Providence, my little book might
be the means of filling it. All our wealthy
parishioners have given lavishly to the cathedral,
and it was for this reason that, in writing
"Through a Glass," I addressed my appeal
more especially to the less well-endowed, hoping
by the example of my heroine to stimulate the
collection of small sums throughout the entire
diocese, and perhaps beyond it. I am sure,' the
Bishop feelingly concluded, *the book would
have a wide-spr^d influence if people could only
be induced to read it ! *

His conclusion touched a fresh thread of
association in Mrs. Fetherel's vibrating nerve-
centres. * I never thought of that ! * she cried.

The Bishop looked at her enquiringly.

^ That one's books may not be read at all !
How dreadful I ' she exclaimed.

He smiled faintly. ^I had not forgotten
that I was addressing an authoress,' he said.

* Indeed, I should not have dared to inflict my
troubles on any one not of the craft.'

Mrs. Fetherel was quivering with the con-
sciousness of her involuntary sel^-betrayal. * Oh,
uncle ! ' she murmured.

* In fact,' the Bishop continued, with a gesture
which seemed to brush away her scruples, * I came
here partly to speak to you about your novel.
" Fast and Loose," I think you call it ? '

92 EXPIATION II

Mrs. Fetherel blushed assentingly.

* And is it out yet ? ' the Bishop continued.
*It came out about a week ago. But you

haven't touched your tea and it must be quite
cold. Let me give you another cup.*

* My reason for asking,* the Bishop went on,
with the bland inexorableness with which, in his
younger days, he had been known to continue a
sermon after the senior warden had looked four
times at his watch — ^ my reason for asking is,
that I hoped I might not be too late to induce
you to change the title.*

Mrs. Fetherel set down the cup she had filled.
« The title ? * she faltered.

The Bishop raised a reassuring hand. * Don*t
misunderstand me, dear child ; don*t for a
moment imagine that I take it to be in any way
indicative of the contents of the book. I know
you too well for that. My first idea was that
it had probably been forced on you by an un-
scrupulous publisher — ^I know too well to what
ignoble compromises one may be driven in such
cases 1 . . .* He paused, as thoi^h to give her
the opportunity of confirming this conjecture,
but she preserved an apprehensive silence, and
he went on, as though taking up the second
point in his sermon — * Or, again, tne name may
have taken your fancy without your realizing all
that it implies to minds more alive than yours to
offensive innuendoes. It is — ^ahem— excessively
suggestive, and I hope I am not too late to warn
you of the false impression it is likely to produce

11 EXPIATION 93

on the very readers whose approbation you would
most value. My friend Mrs. Gollinger, for

instance *

Mrs. Fetherel, as the publication of her
novel testified, was in theory a woman of inde-
pendent views ; and if in practice she sometimes
failed to live up to her standard, it was rather
from an irresistible tendency to adapt herself to
her environment than from any conscious lack
of moral courage. The Bishop's exordium had
excited in her that sense of opposition which
such admonitions are apt to provoke ; but as he
went on she felt herself gradually enclosed in an
atmosphere in which her theories vainly gasped
for breath. The Bishop had the immense dia-
lectical advantage of invalidating any conclusions
at variance with his own by always assuming
that his premises were among the necessary laws
of thought. This method, combined with the
habit of ignoring any classifications but his own,
created an element in which the first condition
of existence was the immediate adoption of his
standpoint ; so that his niece, as she listened,
seemed to feel Mrs. Gollinger 's Mechlin cap
spreading its conventual shadow over her rebel-
lious brow and the Revue de Paris at her elbow
turning into a copy of the Reredos. She had
meant to assure her uncle that she was quite
aware of the significance of the title she had
chosen, that it had been deliberately selected as
indicating the subject of her novel, and that the
book itself had been written in direct defiance of

94 EXPIATION ii

the class of readers for whose susceptibilities he
was alarmed. The words were almost on her
lips when the irresistible suggestion conveyed by
the Bishop's tone and language deflected them
into the apologetic murmur, *Oh, unde, you

mustn't think — I never meant ' How

much farther this current of reaction might
have carried her the historian is unable to com-
pute, for at this point the door opened and her
husband entered the room.

• The first review of your book ! ' he cried,
flourishing a yellow envelope. * My dear Bishop,
how lucky you're here ! '

Though the trials of married life have been
classified and catalogued with exhaustive accuracy,
there is one form of conjugal misery which has
perhaps received inadequate attention ; and that
is the suffering of the versatile woman whose
husband is not equally adapted to all her moods.
Every woman feels for the sister who is com-
pelled to wear a bonnet which does not *go'
with her gown ; but how much sympathy is
given to her whose husband refuses to harmonize
with the pose of the moment? Scant justice
has, for instance, been done to the misunder-
stood wife whose husband persists in under-
standing her ; to the submissive helpmate whose
taskmaster shuns every opportunity of brow-
beating her, and to the generous and impulsive
being whose bills are paid with philosophic calm.
Mrs. Fetherel, as wives go, had been fairly
exempt from trials of this nature, for her

II EXPIATION 95

husband, if undistinguished by pronounced
brutality or indifference, had at least the
negative merit of being her intellectual inferior.
Landscape-gardeners, who are aware of the
usefulness of a valley in emphasizing the height
of a hill, can form an idea of the account to
which an accomplished woman may turn such
deficiencies ; and it need scarcely be said that
Mrs. Fetherel had made the most of her oppor-
tunities. It was agreeably obvious to every one,
Fetherel included, that he was not the man to
appreciate such a woman ; but there are no
limits to man's perversity, and he did his best
to invalidate this advantage by admiring her
without pretending to understand her. What
she most suffered from was this fatuous approval :
the maddening sense that, however she conducted
herself, he would always admire her. Had he
belonged to the class whose conversational sup-
pUes are drawn from the domestic circle, his
wife's name would never have been off his lips ;
and to Mrs. Fetherel's sensitive perceptions his
frequent silences were indicative of the fact that
she was his one topic.

It was, in part, the attempt to escape this
persistent approbation that had driven Mrs.
Fetherel to authorship. She had fancied that
even the most infatuated husband might be
counted on to resent, at least negatively, an
attack on the sanctity of the hearth ; and her
anticipations were heightened by a sense of the
unpanionableness of her act. Mrs. Fetherel's

96 EXPIATION ii

relations with her husband were in fact com*
plicated by an irrepressible tendency to be fond
of him ; and there was a certain pleasure in the
prospect of a situation that justified the most
explicit expiation.

These hopes Fetherel's attitude had already
defeated. He read the book with enthusiasm,
he pressed it on his friends, he sent a copy to
his mother ; and his very soul now hung on the
verdict of the reviewers. It was perhaps this
proof of his general ineptitude that made his
wife doubly alive to his special defects ; so that
his inopportune entrance was aggravated by the
very sound of his voice and the hopeless aber*
ration of his smile. Nothing, to the observant,
is more indicative of a man's character and
circumstances than his way of entering a room.
The Bishop of Ossining, for instance, brought
with him not only an atmosphere of episcopal
authority, but an implied opinion on the verbal
inspiration of the Scriptures and on the attitude
of the Church toward divorce ; while the appear-
ance of Mrs. Fetherel's husband produced an
immediate impression of domestic felicity. His
mere aspect implied that there was a well-filled
nursery upstairs ; that his wife, if she did not
sew on his buttons, at least superintended the
performance of that task ; that they both went
to church regularly, and that they dined with
his mother every Sunday evening punctually at
seven o'clock.

All this and more was expressed in the

II EXPIATION 97

afiectionate gesture with which he now raised
the yellow envelope above Mrs- Fetherel's clutch ;
and knowing the uselessness of begging him not
to be silly, she said with a dry despair : * You're
boring the Bishop horribly.'

Fetherel turned a radiant eye on that dig-
nitary. * She bores us all horribly, doesn't she,
sir ? ' he exulted.

* Have you read it ? ' ssdd his wife, uncon-
trollably#

^Read it? Of course not — it's just this
minute come. I say. Bishop, you're not
going ? '

*Not till I've heard this,' said the Bishop,
setding himself in his chair with an indulgent
smile.

His niece glanced at him despairingly. * Don't
let John's nonsense detain you,' she entreated.

* Detain him ? That's good,' guffawed
Fetherel. *It isn't as long as one of his
sermons — won't take me five minutes to read.
Here, listen to this, ladies and gentlemen : ** In
this age of festering pessimism and decadent
depravity, it is no surprise to the nauseated
reviewer to open one more volume saturated
with the fetid emanations of the sewer —

»> »

Fetherel, who was not in the habit of read-
ing aloud, paused with a gasp, and the Bishop
glanced sharply at his niece, who kept her gaze
fixed on the tea-cup she had not yet succeeded
in transferring to his hand.

* " Of the sewer," ' her husband resumed ;

98 EXPIATION ii

* " but his wonder is proportionately great when
he lights on a novel as sweetly inoffensive as
Paula Fetherel's *Fast and Loose.* Mrs,
Fetherel is, we believe, a new hand at fiction,
and her work reveals frequent traces of inex-
perience ; but these are more than atoned for
by her pure fresh view of life and her altc^ether
unfashionable regard for the reader's moraui sus-
ceptibilities. Let no one be induced by its
distinctly misleading title to forego the enjoy-
ment of this pleasant picture of domestic lire,
which, in spite of a total lack of force in
character -drawing and of consecutiveness in
incident, may be described as a distinctly pretty
story." "

91 9

III

It was several weeks later that Mrs. Clinch once
more brought the plebeian aroma of heated
tramcars and muddy street-crossings into the
violet-scented atmosphere of her cousin's draw-
ing-room.

* Well,' she said, tossing a damp bundle of
proof into the corner of a silk-cushioned bergere,
'Fve read it at last and I'm not so awfully
shocked ! '

Mrs. Fetherel, who sat near the fire with her
head propped on a languid hand, looked up
without speaking.

* Mercy, Paula,* said her visitor, • you're ill.*
Mrs. Fetherel shook her head. * I was never

better,' she said, mournfully.

* Then may I help myself to tea ? Thanks.*
Mrs. Clinch carefully removed her mended

glove before taking a buttered tea-cake ; then
she glanced again at her cousin.

* It's not what I said just no w i * she
ventured.

* Just now ? *

loo EXPIATION in

* About *' Fast and Loose " ? I came to talk
it over/

Mrs, Fethercl sprang to her feet * I never,'
she cried dramatically, 'want to hear it men-
tioned again ! *

* Paula ! ' exdsdmed Mrs. Clinch, setting
down her cup.

Mrs. Fetherd slowly turned on her an eye
brimming with the mconununicable ; then;
dropping into her seat again, she added, with a
tragic laugh : * There's nothing left to say.'

* Nothmg ? ' faltered Mrs. Clinch, long-
ing for another tea-cake, but feeling the in-
appropriateness of the impulse in an atmosphere
so charged with the portentous. *Do you
mean that everything has been said ? ' She
looked tentativdy at her cousin. ' Haven't they
been nice ? '

* They've been odious — odious * Mrs.

Fetherel burst out, with an ineffectual clutch at
her handkerchief. * It's been perfectly intoler-
able!'

Mrs. Clinch, philosophically resigning herself
to the propriety of taking no more tea, crossed
over to her cousin and laid a sympathizing hand
on that lady's agitated shoulder.

* It is a bore at first,' she conceded ; * but
you'll be surprised to see how soon one gets
used to it.'

*I shall — never — get — used to it,' Mrs.
Fetherel brokenly declared.

* Have they been so very nasty — ^all of them? '

in - EXPIATION . loi

* Every one of them ! ' the novelist sdbbedl- ;

* Tm so sorry, dear ; it does hurt, I know —
but hadn't you rather expected it ? '

* Expected it ? * cried Mrs. Fetherel, sitting
up.

Mrs. Clinch felt her way warily. *I only
mean, dear, that I fancied from what you said
before the book came out — that you rather
expected — that you'd rather discounted *

* Their recommending it to everybody as a
perfectly harmless story ? *

* Good gracious I Is that what they've
done ? '

Mrs. Fetherel speechlessly nodded.

* Every one of them ? '

* Every one.'

' Whew ! ' said Mrs. Clinch, with an incipient
whistle.

*Why, you've just said it yourself!' her
cousin suddenly reproached her.

* Said what ? '

* That you weren't so awfully shocked ^

* I ? Oh, well — ^you see, you'd keyed me
up to such a pitch that it wasn't quite as bad as
I expected '

Mrs. Fetherel lifted a smile steeled for the
worst. * Why not say at once,' she suggested,
* that it's a distinctly pretty story ? '

* They haven't said that ? '

* They've all said it'

* My poor Paula ! '

* Even the Bishop—- — '

102 EXPIATION \ III

• * *^*»-., .•'

\Tm Bishop called it a pretty story ?'
•He wrote me — IVe his letter somewhere.
The title rather scared him — ^he wanted me to
change it ; but when he'd read the book he
wrote that it was ail right and that he'd sent
several copies to his friends/

* The old hypocrite I ' cried Mrs. Clinch.

• That was nothing but professional jealousy.'

* Do you think so ? ' cried her cousin,
brightening.

* Sure of it, my dear. His own books don't
sell, and he knew the quickest way to kill yours
was to distribute it through the diocese with his
blessing.'

* Then you don't really think it's a pretty
story ? '

* Dear me, no ! Not nearly as bad as
that '

* You're so good, Bella — but the reviewers ? '

* Oh, the reviewers,' Mrs. Clinch jeered.
She gazed meditatively at the cold remains of
her tea-cake. • Let me see/ she said suddenly ;

* do you happen to remember if the first review
came out in an important paper ? '

* Yes — the Radiator.^

* That's it ! I thought so. Then the others
simply followed suit : they .often do if a big
paper sets the pace. Saves a lot of trouble.
Now if you could only have got the Radiator to
denounce you '

* That's what the Bishop said ! ' cried Mrs.
Fetherel.

HI EXPIATION 103

*Hedid?;

* He said his only chance of selling " Through
a Glass Brightly " was to have it denounced on
the ground of immorality/

*H'm/ said Mrs. Clinch, *I thought he
knew a trick or two.' She turned an illuminated
eye on her cousin. * You ought to get him to
denounce " Fast and Loose " ! ' she cried.

Mrs. Fetherel looked at her suspiciously. * I
suppose every book must stand or fall on its
own merits/ she said in an unconvinced tone.

* Bosh ! That view is as extinct as the post-
chaise and the packet -ship— it belongs to the
time when people read books. Nobody does
that now ; the reviewer was the first to set the
example, and the public were only too thankful
to follow it. At first they read the reviews;
now they read only the publishers' extracts from
them. Even these are rapidly being replaced
by paragraphs borrowed from the vocabulary of
commerce. I often have to look twice before
I am sure if I am reading a department-store
advertisement or the announcement of a new
batch of literature. The publishers will soon be
having their **fall and spring openings" and
their "special importations for Horse -Show
Week.'* But the Bishop is right, of course —
nothing helps a book like a rousing attack on
its morals ; and as the publishers can't exactly
proclaim the impropriety of their own wares,
the task has to be left to the press or the
pulpit.'

I04 EXPIATION III

* * The pulpit ? * Mrs. Fetherd mused.

*Why, yes — ^look at those two novels in
England last year——'

Mrs. Fetherel shook her head hopelessly.
* There is so much more interest in literature in
England than here.'

* Well, we've got to make the supply create
the demand. The Bishop could run your novel
up into the hundred thousands in no time.'

* But if he can't make his own sell '

*My dear, a man can't very well preach

against his own writings ! '

Mrs. Clinch rose and picked up her proofs.

* I'm awfully sorry for you, Paula dear,' she
concluded, *but I can't help bein^ thankful
that there's no demand for pessimism in the
field of natural history. Fancy having to write
" The Fall of a Sparrow," or " How the Plants
Misbehave " ! '

Mrs. Fetherel, driving up to the Grand
Central Station one morning about five months
later, caught sight of the distinguished novelist,
Archer Hyncs, hurrying into the waiting-room
ahead of her. Hynes, on his side, recognizing
her brougham, turned back to greet her as the
footman opened the carriage-door.

* My dear colleague ! Is it possible that we
are travelling together ? *

Mrs. Fetherel blushed with pleasure. Hynes
had given her two columns of praise in the
Sunday Meteor ^ and she had not yet learned to
disguise her gratitude.

^ I am going to Ossining,' she said smilingly.

* So am I. Why, this is almost as good as
an elopement.'

* And it will end where elopements ought
to— in church.'

* In church ? You're not going to Ossining
to go to church ? '

* Why not ? There's a special ceremony in
the cathedral — the chantry window is to be
unveiled.*

io6 EXPIATION IV

* The chantry window ? How picturesque !
What is a chantry ? And why do you want to
see it unveiled? Are you after copy— doing
something in the Huysmans manner? *'La
athcdrale," eh ? '

*Oh, no.' Mrs. Fetherel hesitated. *rm
going simply to please my uncle,' she said, at last.

* Your uncle ? '

* The Bishop, you know.' She smiled.
*The Bishop — the Bishop of Ossining?

Why, wasn't he the chap who made that
ridiculous attack on your book ? Is that pre-
historic ass your uncle ? Upon my soul, I
think you're mighty forgiving to travel all the
way to Ossining for one of his stained-glass
sociables I '

Mrs. Fetherel's smiles flowed into a gentle
laugh. * Oh, I've never allowed that to mter-
fere with our friendship. My uncle felt dread-
fully about having to speak publicly against my
book — ^it was a great deal harder for him than
for me — but he thought it his duty to do so.
He has the very highest sense of duty.'

* Well,' said Hynes, with a shrug, * I don't
know that he didn't do you a good turn.
Look at that ! '

They were standing near the book-stall and
he pointed to a placard surmounting the counter
and emblazoned with the conspicuous announce-
ment : * Fast and Loose. New Edition with
Author's Portrait. Hundred and Fiftieth
Thousand.'

IV EXPIATION 107

Mrs. Fethcrel frowned impatiently. *How
absurd ! They Ve no right to use my picture
as a poster ! '

* There's our train/ said Hynes ; and they
began to push their way through the crowd
surging toward one of the inner doors.

As they stood wedged between circumferent
shoulders, Mrs. Fetherel became conscious of
the fixed stare of a pretty girl who whispered
eagerly to her companion : * Look, Myrtle !
That's Paula Fetherdi right behind us — I knew
her in a minute ! '

* Gracious — where ? * cried the other girl,
giving her head a twist which swept her Gains-
borough plumes across Mrs. Fetherel's face.

The first speaker's words had carried beyond
her companion's ear, and a lemon - coloured
woman in spectacles, who clutched a copy of
the * Journal of Psychology ' in one drab-cotton-
gloved hand, stretched her disengaged hand
across the intervening barrier of humanity.

* Have I the privilege of addressing the dis-
tinguished author of " Fast and Loose " ? If so,
let me thank you in the name of the Woman's
Psychological League of Peoria for your mag-
nificent courage in raising the standard of revolt
against '

*You can tell us the rest in the car,' said
a fat man, pressing his good-humoured bulk
against the speaker's arm.

Mrs. Fetherel, blushing, embarrassed and
happy, slipped into the space produced by this

io8 EXPIATION rr

displacement, and a few moments later had
taken her seat in the train.

She was a little late, and the other chsurs
were ah-eady filled by a company of elderly
ladies and clergymen who seemed to belong to
the same party, and were sdll busy exchanging
greetings and settling themselves in their places.

One of the ladies, at Mrs. Fetherel's approach,
uttered an exclamation of pleasure and advanced
with outstretched hand. 'My dear Mrs.
Fetherel ! I am so delighted to see you here.
May I hope you are going to the unveiling
of the chantry window ? The dear Bishop so
hoped that you would do so ! But perhaps I
ought to introduce myself. I am Mrs. Gol-
linger* — ^she lowered her voice expressively —

* one of your uncle's oldest friends, one who has
stood close to him through all this sad business,
and who knows what he suffered when he felt
obliged to sacrifice family aflFection to the call
of duty/

Mrs. Fetherel, who had smiled and coloured
slightly at the beginning of this speech, received
its close with a deprecating gesture.

* Oh, pray don't mention it,* she murmured.

* I quite understood how my uncle was placed —
I bore him no iU-will for feeling obliged to
preach against my book.'

^He understood that, and was so touched
by it ! He has often told me that it was the
hardest task he was ever called upon to perform
— and, do you know, he quite feels that this

IT EXPIATION 109

unexpected gift of the chantry window is in
some way a return for his courage in preaching
that sermon.'

Mrs. Fetherel smiled faintly. * Does he feel
that?'

* Yes ; he really does. When the funds for
the window were so mysteriously placed at his
disposal, just as he had begun to despair of
raising them, he assured me that he could not
help connecting the fact with his denunciation
of your book.'

* Dear uncle ! ' sighed Mrs. Fetherel. * Did
he say that ? '

* And now,' continued Mrs, Gollinger, with
cumulative rapture — *now that you are about
to show, by appearing at the ceremony to-day,
that there has been no break in your friendly
relations, the dear Bishop's happiness will be
complete. He was so longing to have you
come to the unveiling ! '

* He might have coimted on me,' said Mrs.
Fetherel, still smiling.

*Ah, that is so beautifully forgiving of
you ! ' cried Mrs. Gollinger enthusiastically.
' But then the Bishop has always assured me that
your real nature was very different from that
which — if you wiU pardon my saying so — ^seems
to be revealed by your brilliant but — er — rather
subversive book. " If you only knew my niece,
dear Mrs. Gollinger," he always sdd, "you
would see that her novel was written in all
innocence of heart " ; and to tell you the truth.

no EXPIATION IT

when I first read the book I didn't think it so
very, very shocking. It wasn't till the dear
Bishop had explained to* me — but, dear me, I
mustn't take up your time in this way when so
many others are anxious to have a word with
you.'

Mrs. Fetherel glanced at her in surprise, and
Mrs. GoUinger continued with a playful smile :
* You forget that your face is faniiliar to thou-
sands whom you have never seen. We all
recognized you the moment you entered the
train, and my friends here are so eager to make
your acquaintance — even those' — her smile
deepened — *who thought the dear Bishop not
quite unjustified in his attack on your remarkable
novel.'

A RELIGIOUS light filled the chantry of Ossining
Cathedral, filtering through the linen curtain
which veiled the central window and mingling
with the blaze of tapers on the richly adorned
altar.

In this devout atmosphere, agreeably laden
with the incense-like aroma of Easter lilies and
forced lilacs, Mrs. Fetherel knelt with a sense
of luxurious satisfaction. Beside her sat Archer
Hynes, who had remembered that there was to
be a church scene in his next novel and that
his impressions of the devotional environment
needed refreshing. Mrs. Fetherel was very
happy. She was conscious that her entrance
had sent a thrill through the female devotees
who packed the chantry, and she had humour
enough to enjoy the thought that, but for the
good Bishop's denunciation of her book, the
heads of his flock would not have been turned
so eagerly in her direction. Moreover, as she
entered she had caught sight of a society re-
porter, and she knew that her presence, and the
tact that she was accompanied by Hynes, would

III

iia EXPIATION y

be conspicuously proclaimed in the morning
papers. All these evidences of the success of
her handiwork might have turned a calmer head
than Mrs. Fetherel's ; and though she had now
learned to dissemble her gratification, it still
filled her inwardly with a delightful glow.

The Bishop was somewhat late in appearing,
and she employed the interval in meditating on
the plot of^ her next novel, which was already
partly sketched out, but for which she had been
unable to find a satisfactory denouement. By
a not uncommon process of ratiocination, Mrs.
Fetherel's success had convinced her of her
vocation. She was sure now that it was her
duty to lay bare the secret plague-spots of
society, and she was resolved that there should
be no doubt as to the purpose of her new book.
Experience had shown her that where she had
fancied she was calling a spade a spade she had
in fact been alluding in guarded terms to the
drawing-room shovel. She was determined not
to repeat the same mistake, and she flattered
herself that her coming novel would not need
an episcopal denunciation to insure its sale,
however likely it was to receive this crowning
evidence of success.

She had reached this point in her meditations
when the choir burst into song and the ceremony
of the unveiling began. The Bishop, almost
always felicitous in his addresses to the fair sex,
was never more so than when he was celebrating
the triumph of one of his cherished purposes.

V EXPIATION 113

There was a peculiar mixture of Christian
humility and episcopal exultation in the manner
with which he called attention to the Creator*s
promptness in responding to his demand for
funds, and he had never been more happily
inspired than in eulogizing the mysterious gift
of the chantry window.

Though no hint of the donor's identity had
been allowed to escape him, it was generally
understood that the Bishop knew who had given
the window, and the congregation awaited in a
flutter of suspense the possible announcement
of a name. None came, however, though the
Bishop deliciously titillated the curiosity of his
flock by circling ever closer about the interesting
secret. He would not disguise from them, he
said, that the heart which had divined his inmost
wish had been a woman's — is it not to woman's
intuitions that more than half the happiness of
earth is owing ? What man is obliged to learn
by the laborious process of experience, woman's
wondrous instinct tells her at a glance ; and so
it had been with this cherished scheme, this
unhoped-for completion of their beautiful
chantry. So much, at least, he was allowed to
reveal ; and indeed, had he not done so, the
window itself would have spoken for him, since
the first glance at its touching subject and
exquisite design would show it to have originated
in a woman's heart. This tribute to the sex
was received with an audible sigh of content-
ment, and the Bishop, always stimulated by such

1 14 EXPIATION T

evidence of his sway over his hearers, took up
his theme with gathering eloquence.

Yes— a woman's heart had planned the gift,
a woman's hand had executed it, and, might he
add, without too far withdrawing the veil in
which Christian beneficence ever loved to drape
its acts — ^might he add that, under Providence,
a book, a simple book, a mere tale, in fact, had
had its share in the good work for which they
were assembled to give thanks ?

At this unexpected announcement, a ripple
of excitement ran through the assemblage, and
more than one head was abruptly turned in the
direction of Mrs. Fetherel, who sat listening in
an agony of wonder and confusion. It did not
escape the observant novelist at her side that
she drew down her veil to conceal an uncon-
trollable blush, and this evidence of dismay
caused him to fix an attentive gaze on her, while
from her seat across the aisle Mrs. GoUinger
sent a smile of unctuous approval.

*A book — a simple book,' the Bishop's
voice went on above this flutter of mingled
emotions. * What is a book ? Only a few
pages and a little ink — and yet one of the
mightiest instruments which Providence has
devised for shaping the destinies of man • • «
one of the most powerful influences for good or
evil which the Creator has placed in the hands
of His creatures. . . .'

The air seemed intolerably close to Mrs.
Fetherel, and she drew out her scent-bottle, and

y EXPIATION 115

thien thrust it hurriedly away, conscious that she
was still the centre of an unenviable atten-
tion. And all the while the Bishop's voice
droned on. . • .

*And of all forms of literature, fiction is
doubtless that which has exercised the greatest
sway, for good or ill, over the passions and
imagination of the masses. Yes, my friends, I
am the first to acknowledge it — no sermon,
however eloquent, no theological treatise, how-
ever learned and convincing, has ever inflamed
the heart and imagination like a novel — a simple
novel. Incalculable is the power exercised over
humanity by the great magicians of the pen —
a power ever enlarging its boundaries and in-
creasing its responsibilities as popular education
multiplies the number of readers. . . . Yes, it
is the novelist's hand which can pour balm on
countless human suflTerings, or inoculate man-
kind with the festering poison of a corrupt
imagination. • • .'

Mrs. Fetherel had turned white, and her eyes
were fixed with a blind stare of anger on the
large-sleeved figure in the centre of the chancel.

^ And too often, alas, it is the poison and not
the balm which the unscrupulous hand of genius
proffers to its unsuspecting readers. But, my
friends, why should I continue? None know
better than an assemblage of Christian women,
such as I am now addressing, the beneficent or
baleful influences of modern fiction ; and so,
when I say that this beautiful chantry window

ii6 EXPIATION V

of ours owes its existence in part to the ro-
mancer's pen ' — the Bishop paused, and bending
forward, seemed to seek a certain face among
the countenances eagerly addressed to his —
*when I say that this pen, which for personal
reasons it does not become me to celebrate
unduly *

Mrs. Fetherel at this point half rose, pushing
back her chair, which scraped loudly over the
marble floor ; but Hynes involuntarily laid a
warning hand on her arm, and she sank down
with a confused murmur about the heat.

*When I confess that this pen, which for
once at least has proved itself so much mightier
than the sword, is that which was inspired to
trace the simple narrative of ** Through a Glass
Brightlv " ' — Mrs. Fetherel looked up with a
gasp of mingled relief and anger — * when I tell
you, my dear friends, that it was your Bishop's
own work which first roused the mind of one
of his flock to the crying need of a chantry
window, I think you will admit that I am
justified in celebrating the triumphs of the pen,
even though it be the modest instrument which
your own Bishop wields.*

The Bishop paused impressively, and a faint
gasp of surprise and disappointment was audible
throughout the chantry. Something very different
from this conclusion had been expected, and even
Mrs. Gollinger's lips curled with a slightly ironic
smile. But Archer Hynes's attention was chiefly
reserved for Mrs. Fetherel, whose face had changed

V EXPIATION 117

with astonishing rapidity from surprise to annoy-
ance, from annoyance to relief, and then back
again to something very like indignation.

The address concluded, the actual ceremony
of the unveiling was about to take place, and
the attention of the congregation soon reverted
to the chancel, where the choir had grouped
themselves beneath the veiled window, prepared
to burst into a chant of praise as the Bishop
drew back the hanging. The moment was an
impressive one, and every eye was fixed on the
curtain. Even Hynes*s gaze strayed to it for a
moment, but soon returned to his neighbour *s
face ; and then he perceived that Mrs. Fetherel,
alone of all the persons present, was not looking
at the window. Her eyes were fixed in an
indignant stare on the Bishop ; a flush of anger
burned becomingly under her veil, and her
hands nervously crumpled the beautifully printed
programme of the ceremony.

Hynes broke into a smile of comprehension.
He glanced at the Bishop, and back at the
Bishop's niece ; then, as the episcopal hand was
solemnly raised to draw back the curtain, he
bent and whispered in Mrs. Fetherel's ear :

* Why, you gave it yourself ! You wonder-
ful woman, of course you gave it yourself ! *

Mrs. Fetherel raised her eyes to his with a
start. Her blush deepened and her lips shaped
a hasty * No * ; but the denial was deflected into
the indignant murmur — * It wasn't his silly book
that (Hd it, anyhow ! '

►,

THE LADY'S MAID'S. BELL

119

It was the autumn after I had the typhoid,
rd been three months in hospital, and when I
came out I looked so weak and tottery that the
two or three ladies I applied to were afraid to
engage me. Most of my money was gone, and
after I'd boarded for two months, hanging about
the employment -agencies, and answering any
advertisement that looked any way respectable,
I pretty nearly lost heart, for fretting hadn't
made me fatter, and I didn't see why my luck
should ever turn. It did though— or I thought
so at the time. A Mrs. Railton, a friend of the
lady that first brought me out to the States, met
me one day and stopped to speak to me : she
was one that had always a friendly way with her.
She asked me what ailed me to look so white,
and when I told her, * Why, Hartley,' says she,
♦ I believe I've got the very place for you. Come
in to-morrow and we'll talk about it.'

The next day, when I called, she told me
the lady she'd in mind was a niece of hers, a
Mrs. Brympton, a youngish lady, but something
of an invalid, who lived all the year round at

lai

122 THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL i

her country-place on the Hudson, owing to
not being able to stand the fatigue of town
life.

*Now, Hartley/ Mrs. Railton said, in that
cheery way that always made me feel things
must be going to take a turn for the better —
' now understand me ; it's not a cheerful place
I'm sending you to. The house is big and
gloomy ; my niece is nervous, vapourish ; her
husband — well, he's generally away ; and the
two children are dead. A year ago I would as
soon h2ve thought of shutting a rosy active girl
like you into a vault ; but you're not parti-
cularly brisk yourself just now, are you r and
a quiet place, with country air and wholesome
food and early hours, ought to be the very thing
for you. Don't mistake me,' she added, for I
suppose I looked a trifle downcast ; * you may
find it dull but you won't be unhappy. My
niece is an angel. Her former maid, who died
last spring, had been with her twenty years and
worshipped the ground she walked on. She's
a kind mistress to all, and where the mistress is
kind, as you know, the servants are generally
good-humoured, so you'll probably get on well
enough with the rest of the household. And
you're the very woman I want for my niece :
quiet, well-mannered, and educated above your
station. You read aloud well, I think ? That's
a good thing ; my niece likes to be read to.
She wants a maid that can be sometlung of a
companion : her last was, and I can't say how

I THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL 123

she misses her. It's a lonely life. . . . Well,
have you decided ? '

* Why, ma'am,' I said, * I'm not afraid of
solitude.'

* Well, then, go ; my niece will take you on
my recommendation. I'll telegraph her at once
and you can take the afternoon train. She has
no one to wait on her at present, and I don't
want you to lose any time.'

I was ready enough to start, yet softiething
in me hung back ; and to gain time I asked,
' And the gentleman, ma'am T '

* The gentleman's almost always away, I tell
you,' said Mrs. Railton, quick-like — * and when
he's there,' says she suddenly, * you've only to
keep out of his way.'

I took the afternoon train and got out at
D station at about four o'clock. A groom

in a dog-Hcart was waiting, and we drove off at
a smart pace. It was a dull October day, with
rain hanging dose overhead, and by the time we
turned into Brympton Place woods the daylight
was almost gone. The drive wound through
the woods for a mile or two, and came out on
a gravel court shut in with thickets of tall
black-looking shrubs. There were no lights in
the windows and the house did look a bit
gloomy.

I had asked no questions of the groom, for I
never was one to get my notion of new masters
from their other servants : I prefer to wait and
see for myself. But I could tell by the look of

124 THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL i

everything that I had got into the right kind
of house, and that things were done handsomely.
A pleasant-faced cook met me at the back door
and called the house-maid to show me up to
my room. ' You'll see madam later/ she said.
* Mrs. Brympton has a visitor.'

I hadn't fancied Mrs. Brympton was a lady
to have many visitors, and somehow the words
cheered me. I followed the house^maid upstairs,
and saw, through a door on the upper landing,
that the main part of the house seemed well-
furnished, with dark panelling and a niunber of
old portraits. Another flight of stairs led us
up to the servants' wing. It was almost dark
now, and the house-maid excused herself for not
having brought a light. ' But there's matches
in your room,' she said, ^ and if you go care-
ful you'll be all right. Mind the step at
the end of the passage. Your room is just
beyond.*

I looked ahead as she spoke, and half-way
down the passage I saw a woman standing. She
drew back into a doorway as we passed and the
house-m^d didn't appear to notice her. She was
a thin woman with a white face, and a darkish
stuff gown and apron. I took her for the
housekeeper and thought it odd that she didn't
speak, but just gave me a long look as she went
by. My room opened into a square hall at the
end of the passage. Facing my door was another
which stood open : the house- msdd exclaimed
when she saw it.

f THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL 125

* There — Mrs. Blinder *s left that door open
again ! ' said she, closing it.

* Is Mrs. Blmder the housekeeper ? *

* There's no housekeeper : Mrs. Blinder 's the
cook.'

* And is that her room ? '

* Laws, no/ said the house-maid, cross-like.
* That's nobody's room. It's empty, I mean,
and the door hadn't ought to be open. Mrs.
Brympton wants it kept locked.'

She opened my door and led me into a neat
room, nicely furnished, with a picture or two on
the walls ; and having lit a candle she took leave,
telling me that the servants'-hall tea was at six,
and that Mrs. Brympton would see me after-
ward.

I found them a pleasant-spoken set in the
servants' hall, and by what they let fall I gathered
that, as Mrs. Railton had said, Mrs. Brympton
was the kindest of ladies ; but I didn't take
much notice of their talk, for I was watching to
see the pale woman in the dark gown come in.
She didn't show herself, however, and I wondered
if she ate apart ; but if she wasn't the house-
keeper, why should she ? Suddenly it struck
me that she might be a trained nurse, and in
that case her meals would of course be served in
her room. If Mrs. Brympton was an invalid it
was likely enough she had a nurse. The idea
annoyed me, I own, for they're not always
the easiest to get on with, and if I'd known
I shouldn't have taken the place. But there

126 THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL i

I was and there was no use pulling a long face
over it ; and not being one to 3^ questions I
waited to see what would turn up.

When tea was over the house-maid said to
the footman : * Has Mr. Ranford gone ? ' and
when he said yes, she told me to come up with
her to Mrs. Brympton.

Mrs. Brympton was lying down in her bed-
room. Her lounge stood near the fire and
beside it was a shaded lamp. She was a delicate-
looking lady, but when she smiled I felt there
was nothing I wouldn't do for her. She spoke
very pleasantly, in a low voice, asking me my
name and age and so on, and if I had every-
thing I wanted, and if I wasn't afraid of feeling
lonely in the country.

• Not with you I wouldn't be, madam,' I said,
and the words surprised me when I'd spoken
them, for I'm not an impulsive person ; but it
was just as if I'd thought aloud.

She seemed pleased at that, and said she
hoped I'd continue in the same mind ; then she
gave me a few directions about her toilet, and
said Agnes the house-maid would show me next
morning where things were kept.

• I am tired to-night, and shall dine upstairs,'
she said. * Agnes will bring me my tray, that
you may have time to unpack and settle your-
self ; and later you may come and undress me.'

• Very well, ma'am,' I s^d. * You'll ring, I
suppose ? '

I thought she looked odd.

I THE LADTS MAID'S BELL 127

* No — Agnes will fetch you/ says she quickly,
and took up her book again.

Well — ^that was certainly strange : a lady V
maid having to be fetched by the house-maid
whenever her lady wanted her ! I wondered if
there were no bells in the house ; but the next
day I satisfied myself that there was one in every
room, and a special one ringing from my
mistress's room to mine ; and after that it did
strike me as queer that, whenever Mrs. Brymp-
ton wanted anything, she rang for Agnes, who
had to walk the whole length of the servants*
wing to call me.

But that wasn't the only queer thing in the
house. The very next day I found out that
Mrs. Brympton had no nurse ; and then I asked
Agnes about the woman I had seen in the
passage the afternoon before. Agnes said she
had seen no one, and I saw that she thought I
was dreaming. To be sure, it was dusk when
we went dowa the passage, and she had excused
herself for not bringing a light ; but I had seen
the woman plain enough to know her again if
we should meet. I decided that she must have
been a friend of the cook's, or of one of the
other women-servants ; perhaps she had come
down from town for a night's visit, and the
servants wanted it kept secret. Some ladies are
very stiff about having their servants' friends
in the house overnight. At any rate, I made
up my mind to ask no more questions.

In a day or two another odd thing happened.

128 THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL i

I was chatting one afternoon with Mrs« Blinder,
who was a triendly disposed woman, and had
been longer in the house than the other servants,
and she asked me if I was quite comfortable
and had everything I needed. I said I had no
fault to find with my place or with my mistress,
but I thought it odd that in so large a house
there was no sewing-room for the lady's maid.

• Why/ says she, * there is one : the room
you're in is the old sewing-room.'

• Oh,' said I ; * and where did the other
lady's maid sleep ? '

At that she grew confused, and said hurriedly
that the servants' rooms had all been changed
last year, and she didn't rightly remember.

That struck me as peculiar, but I went on as
if I hadn't noticed: •Well, there's a vacant
room opposite mine, and I mean to ask Mrs.
Brympton if I mayn't use that as a sewing-room.'

To my astonishment, Mrs. Blinder went
white and gave my hand a kind of squeeze.
* Don't do that, my dear,' said she, trembling-
like. • To tell you the truth, that was Emma
Saxon's room, and my mistress has kept it closed
ever since her death.'

• And who was Emma Saxon ? '

• Mrs. Brympton's former maid.'

• The one that was nwth her so many years ? '
said I, remembering what Mrs. Railton had
told me.

Mrs. Blinder nodded.

• What sort of woman was she ? '

I THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL 129

•No better walked the earth/ said Mrs.
f^ Blinder. * My mistress loved her like a sister.'

• But I mean — what did she look like ? '

Mrs. Blinder got up and gave me a kind of

f angry stare. * Tm no great hand at describing,'

she said; *and I believe my pastry's rising.'

And she walked off into the kitchen and shut

** the door after her.

I HAD been near a week at Brympton before I
saw my master. Word came that he was arriv-
ing one afternoon, and a change passed over the
whole household. It was plain that nobody
loved him below stairs. Mrs. Blinder took un-
common care with the dinner that night, but
she snapped at the kitchen-maid in a way quite
unusual with her ; and Mr. Wace, the butler,
a serious slow-spoken man, went about his
duties as if he'd been getting ready for a
funeral. He was a great Bible-reader, Mr.
Wace was, and had a beautiful assortment of
texts at his command ; but that day he used
such dreadful language that I was about to
leave the table, when he assured me it was all
out of Isaiah ; and I noticed that whenever the
master came Mr. Wace took to the prophets.

About seven, Agnes called me to my mistress's
room ; and there 1 found Mr. Brympton. He
was standing on the hearth ; a big fair bull-
necked man, with a red face and little bad-
tempered blue eyes : the kind of man a young
simpleton might have thought handsome, and

130

II THE LADrS MAID'S BELL 131

would have been like to pay dear for think-
ing it.

He swung about when I came in, and looked
me over in a trice. I knew what the look
meant, from having experienced it once or
twice in my former places. Then he turned
his back on me, and went on talking to his wife ;
and I knew what that meant, too. I was not
the kind of morsel he was after. The typhoid
had served me well enough in one way : it kept
that kind of gentleman at arm's-length.

• This is my new maid. Hartley,' says Mrs.
Brympton in her kind voice ; and he nodded
and went on with what he was saying.

In a minute or two he went off, and left my
mistress to dress for dinner, and I noticed as I
waited on her that she was white, and chill to
the touch.

Mr. Brympton took himself off the next
morning, and the whole house drew a long
breath when he drove away. As for my
mistress, she put on her hat and furs (for it
was a fine winter morning) and went out for a
walk in the gardens, coming back quite fresh
and rosy, so that for a minute, before her colour
faded, I could guess what a pretty young lady
she must have been, and not so long ago, either.

She had met Mr. Ranford in the grounds,
and the two came back together, I remember,
smiling and talking as they walked along the
terrace under my window. That was the first
time I saw Mr. Ranford, though I had often

132 THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL ii

heard his name mentioned in the hall. He was
a neighbour, it appeared, living a mile or two
beyond Brympton, at the end of the village ;
and as he was in the habit of spending his
winters in the country he was almost the only
company my mistress had at that season. He
was a slight tall gentleman of about thirty, and
I thought him rather melancholy-looking till I
saw his smile, which had a kind of surprise in
it, like the first warm day in spring. He was
a great reader, I heard, like my mistress, and
the two were forever borrowing books of one
another, and sometimes (Mr. Wace told me)
he would read aloud to Mrs. Brympton by the
hour, in the big dark library where she sat in
the winter afternoons. The servants all liked
him, and perhaps that's more of a compliment
than the masters suspect. He had a friendly
word for every one of us, and we were all glad
to think that Mrs. Brympton had a pleasant
companionable gentleman like that to keep her
company when the master was away. Mr.
Ranford seemed on excellent terms with Mr.
Brympton too ; though I couldn't but wonder
that two gentlemen so unlike each other should
be so friendly. But then I knew how the real
quality can keep their feelings to themselves.

As for Mr. Brympton, he came and went,
never staying more than a day or two, cursing
the dulness and the solitude, grumbling at
everything, and (as I soon found out) drinking
a deal more than was good for him. After

II THE LADTS MAlD^S BELL 133

Mrs. Brympton left the table he would sit half
the night over the old Brympton port and
madeira, and once, as I was leaving my mistress's
room rather later than usual, I met him coming
up the stairs in such a state that I turned sick
to think of what some ladies have to endure and
hold their tongues about.

The servants said very little about their
master ; but from what they let drop I could
see it had been an unhappy match from the
beginning. Mr. Brympton was coarse, loud,
and pleasure-loving ; my mistress quiet, retiring,
and perhaps a tnfle cold. Not that she was
not always pleasant-spoken to him : I thought
her wonderfully forbearing ; but to a gentleman
as free as Mr. Brympton I daresay she seemed a
little offish.

Well, things went on quietly for several
weeks. My mistress was kind, my duties were
light, and I got on well with the other servants.
In short, I had nothing to complain of; yet
there was always a weight on me. I can't say
why it was so, but I know it was not the loneli-
ness that I felt. I soon got used to that ; and
being still languid from the fever I was thank-
ful for the quiet and the good country air.
Nevertheless, I was never quite easy in my mind.
My mistress, knowing I had been ill, insisted
that I should take my walk regular, and often
invented errands for me : — a yard of ribbon to
be fetched from the village, a letter posted, or
a book returned to Mr. Ranford. As soon as

134 THE LADrS MAID'S BELL ii

I was out of doors my spirits rose, and I looked
forward to my walks through the bare moist-
smelling woods ; but the moment I caught sight
of the house again my heart dropped down Uke
a stone in a well. It was not a gloomy house
exactly, yet I never entered it but a feeling of
gloom came over me.

Mrs. Brympton seldom went out in isdnter ;
only on the finest days did she walk an hour
at noon on the south terrace. Excepting Mr.
Ranford, we had no visitors but the doctor,

who drove over from D about once a week.

He sent for me once or twice to give me some
trifling direction about my mistress, and though
he never told me what her illness was, I thought,
from a waxy look she had now and then of a
morning, that it might be the heart that ailed
her. The season was soft and unwholesome,
and in January we had a long spell of rain.
That was a sore trial to me, I own, for I couldn't
go out, and sitting over my sewing all day,
listening to the drip, drip of the eaves, I grew
so nervous that the least sound made me jump.
Somehow, the thought of that locked room
across the passage began to weigh on me.
Once or twice, in the long rainy nights, I
fancied I heard noises there ; but that was
nonsense, of course, and the daylight drove
such notions out of my head. Well, one
morning Mrs. Brympton gave me quite a start
of pleasure by telling me she isdshed me to go
to town for some shopping. I hadn't known

II THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL 135

till then how low my spirits had fallen. I set
off in high glee, and my first sight of the
crowded streets and the cheerful-looking shops
quite took me out of myself. Toward after-
noon, however, the noise and confusion began
to tire me, and I was actually looking forward
to the quiet of Brympton, and thinking how I
should enjoy the drive home through the dark
woods, when I ran across an old acquaintance,
a maid I had once been in service with. We
had lost sight of each other for a number of
years, and I had to stop and tell her what had
happened to me in the interval. When I men-
tioned where I was living she rolled up her eyes
and pulled a long face.

* What ! The Mrs. Brympton that lives all
the year at her place on the Hudson ? My
dear, you won't stay there three months.'

* Oh, but I don't mind the country,' says I,
offended somehow at her tone. • Since the fever
I'm glad to be quiet.'

She shook her head. * It's not the country
I'm thinking of. All I know is she's had four
maids in the last six months, and the last one,
who was a firiend of mine, told me nobody could
stay in the house.'

* Did she say why ? ' I asked.

•No — she wouldn't give me her reason.
But she says to me, Mrs. Ansey^ she says, //
ever a young woman as you know of thinks of
going there^ you tell her ifs not worth while to
unpack her boxes. ^

136 THE LAOrS MAID'S BELL ii

' Is she young and handsome i ' said I, think-
ing of Mr. Brympton.

'Not her! She's the kind that mothers
engage when they've gay young gentlemen at
college.'

Welly though I knew the woman was an idle
gossipy the words stuck in my head, and my
heart sank lower than ever as I drove up to
Brympton in the dusk. There was something
about the house — I was sure of it now . . .

When I went in to tea I heard that Mr.
Brympton had arrived, and I saw at a glance
that there had been a disturbance of some kind.
Mrs. Blinder's hand shook so that she could
hardly pour the tea, and Mr. Wace quoted the
most dreadful texts full of brimstone. Nobody
said a word to me then, but when I went up to
my room, Mrs. Blinder followed me.

*Oh, my dear,' says she, taking my hand,
'I'm so glad and thankful you've come back
to us ! '

That struck me, as you may imagine.
• Why,' said I, * did you think I was leaving
for good ? '

* No, no, to be sure,' said she, a little con-
fused, 'but I can't a-bear to have madam left
alone for a day even.' She pressed my hand
hard, and, * Oh, Miss Hardey,' says she, * be
good to your mistress, as you're a Christian
woman.' And with that she hiu-ried away, and
left me staring.

A moment later Agnes called me to Mrs.

II THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL 137

Brympton. Hearing Mr. Brympton's voice in
her room, I went round by the dressing-room,
thinking I would lay out her dinner -gown
before going in. The dressing-room is a large
room with a window over the portico that looks
toward the gardens. Mr. Brympton's apart-
ments are beyond. When I went in, the door
into the bedroom was ajar, and I heard Mr.
Brympton saying angrily : — * One would sup-
pose he was the only person fit for you to
talk to.'

* I don't have many visitors in winter,' Mrs.
Brympton answered quietly.

• You have me ! ' he flung at her, sneeringly.

* You are here so seldom,' said she.

• Well — ^whose fault is that } You make the
place about as lively as the family vault '

With that I rattled the toilet-things, to give
my mistress warning, and she rose and called
me in.

The two dined alone, as usual, and I knew
by Mr. Wace's manner at supper that things
must be going badly. He quoted the pro-
phets something terrible, and worked on the
kitchen-maid so that she declared she wouldn't
go down alone to put the cold meat in the
ice-box. I felt nervous myself, and after I had
put my mistress to bed I was half-tempted to
go down again and persuade Mrs. Blinder to
sit up a while over a game of cards. But I
heard her door closing for the night and so I
went on to my own room. The rain had begun

138 THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL ii

again, and the drip, drip, drip seemed to be
dropping into my brain. I lay awake listening
to It, and turning over what my friend in town
had said. What puzzled me was that it was
always the maids who left. . . .

After a while I slept ; but suddenly a loud
noise wakened me. My bell had rung. I sat
up, terrified by the unusual sound, which seemed
to go on jangling through the darkness. My
hands shook so that I couldn't find the matches.
At length I struck a light and jumped out of
bed. I began to think I must have been dream-
ing ; but I looked at the bell against the wall,
and there was the little hammer still quivering.

I was just beginning to huddle on my clothes
when I heard another sound. This time it was
the door of the locked room opposite mine
softly opening and closing. I heard the sound
distinctly, and it frightened me so that I stood
stock still. Then I heard a footstep hurrying
down the passage toward the main house.
The floor being carpeted, the sound was very
faint, but I was quite sure it was a woman's
step. I turned cold with the thought of it, and
for a minute or two I dursn't breathe or move.
Then I came to my senses.

* Alice Hartley,' says I to myself, * some one
left that room just now and ran down the
passage ahead of you. The idea isn't pleasant,
but you may as well face it. Your mistress has
rung for you, and to answer her bell you've
got to go the way that other woman has gone.'

II THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL 139

Well — I did it. I never walked faster in
my life, yet I thought I should never get to the
end of the passage or reach Mrs. Brympton's
room. On the way I heard nothing and saw
nothing : all was dark and quiet as the grave.
When I reached my mistress's door the silence
was so deep that I began to think I must be
dreaming, and was half-minded to turn back.
Then a panic seized me, and I knocked.

There was no answer, and I knocked again,
loudly. To my astonishment the door was
opened by Mr. Brympton. He started back
when he saw me, and in the light of my candle
his face looked red and savage.

* Tou ? * he said, in a queer voice. * How
many of you are therCy in God's name ? '

At that I felt the ground give under me ;
but I said to myself that he had been drinking,
and answered as steadily as I could : ^ May I
go in, sir? Mrs. Brympton has rung for me.'

* You may all go in, for what I care,' says he,
and, pushing by me, walked down the hall to
his own bedroom. I looked after him as he
went, and to my surprise I saw that he walked
as straight as a sober man.

I found my mistress lying very weak and
still, but she forced a smile when she saw me,
and signed to me to pour out some drops for
her. After that she lay without speaking, her
breath coming quick, and her eyes closed.
Suddenly she groped out with her hand, and
* Emma; says she, faintly.

I40 THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL ii

•It's Hardey, madam/ I s^d. *Do you
want anything ? '

She opened her eyes wide and gave me a
startled look.

• I was dreaming/ she said. * You may go,
now, Hartley, and thank you kindly. I'm

Jiuite well again, you see.' And she turned her
ace away from me.

Ill

There was no more sleep for me that night,
and I was thankful when daylight came.

Soon afterward, Agnes called me to Mrs.
Brympton. I was afraid she was ill again, for
she seldom sent for me before nine, but I found
her sitting up in bed, pale and drawn-looking,
but quite herself.

* Hartley,' says she quickly, *will you put
on your things at once and go down to the
village for me ? I want this prescription made
up' — ^here she hesitated a minute and blushed
— *and I should like you to be back again
before Mr. Brympton is up.*

* Certainly, madam,' I said.

* And — stay a moment ' — she called me
back as if an idea had just struck her — • while
you're waiting for the mixture, you'U have time
to go on to Mr. Ranford's with this note.'

It was a two-mile walk to the village, and on
my way I had time to turn things over in my
mind. It struck me as peculiar that my mistress
should wish the prescription made up without
Mr. Brympton's knowledge ; and, putting this

141

142 THE LADY'S MAID*S BELL iii

together with the scene of the night before, and
with much else that I had noticed and suspected,
I began to wonder if the poor lady was weary
of her life, and had come to the mad resolve of
ending it. The idea took such hold on me that
I reached the village on a run, and dropped
breathless into a chair before the chemist's
counter. The good man, who was just taking
down his shutters, stared at me so hard that it
brought me to myself.

* Mr. Limmel,' I says, trying to speak in-
(UfFerent, * will you run your eye over this, and
tell me if it's quite right ? '

He put on his spectacles and studied the pre-
scription.

*Why, it's one of Dr. Walton's,' says he.
* What should be wrong with it ? '

* Well — is it dangerous to take ? '

* Dangerous — ^how do you mean ? '

I could have shaken the man for his stupidity.

* I mean — if a person was to take too much

of it — by mistake of course ' says I, my

heart in my throat.

* Lord bless you, no. It's only lime-water.
You might feed it to a baby by the bottleful.'

I gave a great sigh of relief and hurried on
to Mr. Ranford's. But on the way another
thought struck me. If there was nothing to
conceal about my visit to the chemist's, was it
my other errand that Mrs. Brympton wished
me to keep private? Somehow, that thought
frightened me worse than the other. Yet the

Ill THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL 143

two gentlemen seemed fast friends, and I would
have staked my head on my mistress's goodness.
I felt ashamed of my suspicions, and concluded
that I was still disturbed by the strange events
of the night. I left the note at Mr. Ranford's,
and hurrying back to Brympton, slipped in by
a side door without being seen, as I thought.

An hour later, however, as I was carrying in
my mistress's breakfast, I was stopped in the
hall by Mr. Brympton.

* What were you doing out so early ?' he says,
looking hard at me.

* Early — me, sir ? ' I said, in a tremble.
*Come, come,' he says, an angry red spot

coming out on his forehead, * didn't I see you
scuttling home through the shrubbery an hour
or more ago ? '

I'm a truthful woman by nature, but at that
a lie popped out ready-made. * No, sir, you
didn't,' said I, and looked straight back at him.

He shrugged his shoulders and gave a sullen
laugh. * I suppose you think I was drunk last
night ? ' he asked suddenly.

* No, sir, I don't,' I answered, this time truth-
fully enough.

He turned away with another shrug. *A
pretty notion my servants have of me ! ' I
neard him mutter as he walked off.

Not till I had settled down to my afternoon's
sewing did I realize how the events of the night
had shaken me. I couldn't pass that locked
door without a shiver. I knew I had heard

144 THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL iii

someone come out of it, and walk down the
passage ahead of me. I thought of speaking to
Mrs. Blinder or to Mr. Wace, the only two in
the house who appeared to have an inkling of
what was going on, but I had a feeling that if
I questioned them they would deny everything,
and that I might learn more by holding my
tongue and keeping my eyes open. The idea
of spending another night opposite the locked
room sickened me, and once I was seized with
the notion of packing my trunk and taking the
first train to town ; but it wasn't in me to
throw over a kind mistress in that manner, and
I tried to go on with my sewing as if nothing
had happened. I hadn't worked ten minutes
before the sewing machine broke down. It was
one I had found in the house, a good machine
but a trifle out of order : Mrs. Blinder said it
had never been used since Enima Saxon's death.
I stopped to see what was wrong, and as I was
working at the machine a drawer which I had
never been able to open slid forward^ and a
photograph fell out. I picked it up and sat
looking at it in a maze. It was a woman's
likeness, and I knew I had seen the face some-
where — the eyes had an asking look that I had
felt on me before. And suddenly I remembered
the pale woman in the passage.

I stood up, cold all over, and ran out of the
room. My heart seemed to be thumping in the
top of my head, and I felt as if I should never
get away from the look in those eyes. I went

Ill THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL 145

straight to Mrs. Blinder. She was taking her
afternoon nap, and sat up with a jump when I
came in.

* Mrs. Blinder,' said I, * who is that ? ' And
I held out the photograph.

She rubbed her eyes and stared.

* Why, Emma Saxon,' says she. * Where
did you find it ? '

I looked hard at her for a minute. * Mrs.
Blinder,' I said, * I've seen that face before.'

Mrs. Blinder got up and walked over to the
looking-glass. * Dear me ! I must have been
asleep,' she says. * My front is all over one
ear. And now do run along, Miss Hartley,
dear, for I hear the clock striking four, and I
must go down this very minute and put on the
Virginia ham for Mr. Brympton's dinner.'

To all appearances, things went on as usual for
a week or two. The only difFerence was that
Mr. Brympton stayed on, instead of going
off as he usually did, and that Mr. Ranford
never showed himself. I heard Mr. Brympton
remark on this one afternoon when he was
sitting in my mistress's room before dinner.

* Where's Ranford ? * says he. • He hasn*t
been near the house for a week. Does he keep
away because I'm here ? '

Mrs. Brympton spoke so low that I couldn't
catch her answer.

*Well,' he went on, * two's company and
three's trumpery ; I'm sorry to be in Ranford's
way, and I suppose I shall have to take myself
off again in a day or two and give him a show.'
And he laughed at his own joke.

The very next day, as it happened, Mr.
Ranford called. The footman said the three
were very merry over their tea in the library,
and Mr. Brympton strolled down to the gate
with Mr. Ranford when he left.

I have said that things went on as usual ;

146

I
♦

IV THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL 147

and so they did with the rest of the household ;
but as for myself, I had never been the same
since the night my bell had rung. Night after
night I used to lie awake, listening ror it to
ring again, and for the door of the locked room
to open stealthily. But the bell never rang,
and I heard no sound across the passage. At
last the silence began to be more dreadfiil to
me than the most mysterious sounds. I felt
that someone was cowering there, behind the
locked door, watching and listening as I
watched and listened, and I could almost have
cried out, * Whoever you are, come out and
let me see you face to face, but don't lurk there
and spy on me in the darkness ! '

Feeling as I did, you may wonder I didn't
give warning. Once I very nearly did so ; but
at the last moment something held me back.
Whether it was compassion for my mistress,
who had grown more and more dependent on
me, or unwillingness to try a new place, or
some other feeling that I couldn't put a name
to, I lingered on as if spell-bound, though
every night was dreadful to me, and the days
but little better.

For one thing, I didn't like Mrs. Brympton's
looks. She had never been the same since that
night, no more than I had. I thought she
would brighten up after Mr. Brympton left,
but though she seemed easier in her mind,
her spirits didn't revive, nor her strength
either. She had grown attached to me and

148 THE LADTS MAID'S BELL iv

seemed to like to have me about ; and Agnes
told me one day that, since Emma Saxon*s
death, I was the only maid her mistress had
taken to. This gave me a warm feeling for
the poor lady, though after all there was little
I could do to help her.

After Mr. Brympton's departure Mr. Ran-
ford took to coming again, though less often
than formerly. I met him once or twice in
the grounds, or in the village, and I couldn't
but think there was a change in him too ; but
I set it down to my disordered fancy.

The weeks passed, and Mr. Brympton had
now been a month absent. We heard he was
cruising with a friend in the West Indies, and
Mr. Wace s^d that was a long way off, but
though you had the wings of a dove and
went to the uttermost parts of the earth, you
couldn't get away from the Almighty. Asnes
said that as long as he stayed away nrom
Brympton the Almighty might have him and
welcome ; and this raised a laugh, though Mrs.
Blinder tried to look shocked, and Mr. Wace
sdid the bears would eat us.

We were all glad to hear that the West
Indies were a long way off, and I remember
that, in spite of Mr. Wace's solemn looks, we
had a very merry dinner that dav in the hall.
I don't know if it was because of my being in
better spirits, but I fancied Mrs. Brympton
looked better too, and seemed more cheerful in
her manner. She had been for a walk in the

IV THE LADrS MAID'S BELL 149

morning, and after luncheon she lay down in
her room, and I read aloud to her. When
she dismissed me I went to my own room
feeling quite bright and happy, and for the
first time in weeks walked past the locked
door without thinking of it. As I sat down
to my work I looked out and saw a few snow-
flakes falling. The sight was pleasanter than
the eternal rain, and I pictured to myself how
pretty the bare gardens would look in their
white mantle. It seemed to me as if the snow
would cover up all the dreariness, indoors as
well as out.

The fancy had hardly crossed my mind
when I heard a step at my side. I looked up,
thinking it was Agnes.

*WeU, Agnes * said I, and the words

froze on my tongue ; for there, in the door,
stood Emma Saxon.

I don't know how long she stood there.
I only know I couldn't stir or take my eyes
from her. Afterward I was terribly frightened,
but at the time it wasn't fear I felt, but some-
thing deeper and quieter. She looked at me
long and long, and her face was just one dumb
prayer to me — ^but how in the world was I to
help her? Suddenly she turned, and I heard
her walk down the passage. This time I
wasn't afraid to follow — I felt that I must
know what she wanted. I sprang up and ran
out. She was at the other end of the passage,
and I expected her to take the turn toward

I50 THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL iv

my mistress's room ; but instead of that she
pushed open the door that led to the back-
stairs. I followed her down the stairs, and
across the passage-way to the back door. The
kitchen and hall were empty at that hour, the
servants being oiF duty, except for the footman,
who was in the pantry. At the door she stood
still a moment, with another look at me ; then
she turned the handle, and stepped out. For
a minute I hesitated. Where was she leading
me to ? The door had closed softly after her,
. and I opened it and looked out, half-expecting
to find that she had disappeared. But I saw
her a few yards off hurrying across the court-
yard to the path through the woods. Her
figure looked black and lonely in the snow, and
for a second my heart failed me and I thought
of turning back. But all the while she was
drawing me after her ; and catching up an old
shawl of Mrs. Blinder's I ran out into the
open.

Emma Saxon was in the wood -path now.
She walked on steadily, and I followed at the
same pace till we passed out of the gates and
reached the highroad. Then she struck across
the open fields to the village. By this time the
ground was white, and as she climbed the slope
of a bare hill ahead of me I noticed that she left
no footprints behind her. At sight of that my
heart shrivelled up within me and my knees
were water. Somehow it was worse here than
indoors. She made the whole countryside seem

IV THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL 151

lonely as the grave, with none but us two in it,
and no help in the wide world.

Once I tried to go back ; but she turned
and looked at me, and it was as if she had
dragged me with ropes. After that I followed
her Uke a dog. We came to the village and
she led me through it, past the church and the
blacksmith's shop, and down the lane to Mr.
Ranford's. Mr. Ranford's house stands close
to the road : a plain old-fashioned building,
with a flagged path leading to the door between
box-borders. The lane was deserted, and as I
turned into it I saw Emma Saxon pause under
the old elm by the gate. And now another
fear came over me. I saw that we had reached
the end of our journey, and that it was my turn
to act. All the way from Brympton I had been
asking myself what she wanted of me, but I
had followed in a trance, as it were, and not
till I saw her stop at Mr. Ranford's gate
did my brain begin to clear itself. I stood a
little way off in the snow, my heart beating fit
to strangle me, and my feet frozen to the
ground ; and she stood under t6e elm and
watched me.

I knew well enough that she hadn't led me
there for nothing. I felt there was something I
ought to say or do— but how was I to guess
what it was .? I had never thought harm of my
mistress and Mr. Ranford, but I was sure now
that, from one cause or another, some dreadful
thing hung over them. She knew what it was ;

152 THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL iv

she would tell me if she could ; perhaps she
would answer if I questioned her.

It turned me faint to think of speaking to
her ; but I plucked up heart and dragged my-
self across the few yards between us. As 1 did
SO) I heard the house-door open and saw Mr.
Ranford approaching. He looked handsome
and cheerful, as my mistress had looked that
morning, and at sight of him the blood began
to flow again in my veins.

* Why, Hartley,' said he, * what's the matter ?
I saw you coming down the lane just now, and
came out to see if you had taken root in the
snow.' He stopped and stared at me. * What
are you looking at ? ' he says.

I turned toward the elm as he spoke, and
his eyes followed me ; but there was no one
there. The lane was empty as far as the eye
could reach.

A sense of helplessness came over me. She
was gone, and I had not been able to guess
what she wanted. Her last look had pierced
me to the marrow ; and yet it had not told me !
All at once, 1 felt more desolate than when she
had stood there watching me. It seemed as if
she had left me all alone to carry the weight of
the secret I couldn't guess. The snow went
round me in great circles, and the ground fell
away from me. . . .

A drop of brandy and the warmth of Mr.
Ranford's fire soon brought me to, and I in-
sisted on being driven back at once to Brympton.

IV THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL 153

It was nearly dark, and I was afraid my
mistress might be wanting me. I explained to
Mr. Ranford that I had been out for a walk
and had been taken with a fit of giddiness as I
passed his gate. This was true enough ; yet I
never felt more like a liar than when I said it.

When I dressed Mrs. Brympton for dinner
she remarked on my pale looks and asked what
ailed me. I told her I had a headache, and she
said she would not require me again that evening,
and advised me to go to bed.

It was a fact that I could scarcely keep on
my feet ; yet I had no fancy to spend a solitary
evening in my room. I sat downstairs in the
hall as long as I could hold my head up ; but
by nine I crept upstairs, too weary to care what
happened if I could but get my head on a
pillow. The rest of the household went to bed
soon afterward ; they kept early hours when
the master was away, and before ten I heard
Mrs. Blinder's door close, and Mr. Wace's soon
after.

It was a very still night, earth and air all
muffled in snow. Once in bed I felt easier, and
lay quiet, listening to the strange noises that
come out in a house after dark. Once I
thought I heard a door open and close again
below : it might have been the glass door that
led to the gardens. I got up and peered out of
the window ; but it was in the dark of the
moon, and nothing visible outside but the
streaking of snow against the panes.

154 THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL iv

I went back to bed and must have dozed,
for I jumped awake to the furious ringing of
my bell. Before my head was clear 1 had
sprung out of bed and was dragging on my
clothes. // is going to happen now^ I heard my-
self saying ; but what I meant I had no notion.
My hands seemed to be covered with glue — I
thought I should never get into my clothes.
At last I opened my door and peered down the
passage. As far as my candle-flame carried,
I could see nothing unusual ahead of me.
I hurried on, breathless ; but as I pushed open
the baize door leading to the main hall my
heart stood still, for there at the head of the
stairs was Emma Saxon, peering dreadfully
down into the darkness.

For a second I couldn't stir ; but my hand
slipped from the door, and as it swung shut the
figure vanished. At the same instant there
came another sound from below stairs — a
stealthy mysterious sound, as of a latch-key
turning in the house -door. I ran to Mrs.
Brympton's room and knocked.

There was no answer, and I knocked again.
This time I heard some one moving in the
room ; the bolt slipped back and my mistress
stood before me. To my surprise I saw that
she had not undressed for the night. She gave
me a startled look.

* What is this. Hartley } ' she says in a
whisper. * Are you ill } What are you doing
here at this hour ? '

IV THE LADY'S MAID^S BELL 155

* I am not ill, madam ; but my bell rang/
At that she turned pale, and seemed about

to fall.

* You are mistaken/ she said harshly ; * I
didn't ring. You must have been dreaming.' I
had never heard her speak in such a tone. * Go
back to bed,' she said, closing the door on me.

But as she spoke I heard sounds again in the
hall below ; a man's step this time ; and the
truth leaped out on me.

* Madam,* I said, pushing past her, * there is
someone in the house '

* Someone i *

*Mr. Brympton, I think — I hear his step
below '

A dreadful look came over her, and without
a word, she dropped flat at my feet. I fell on
my knees and tried to lift her : by the way she
breathed I saw it was no common faint. But as
I raised her head there came quick steps on the
stairs and across the hall : the door was flung
open, and there stood Mr. Brympton, in his
travelling-clothes, the snow dripping from him.
He drew back with a start as he saw me kneel-
ing by my mistress.

* What the devil is this ? ' he shouted. He
was less high-coloured than usual, and the red
spot came out on his forehead.

* Mrs. Brympton has fainted, sir,' said I.
He laughed unsteadily and pushed by me.

* It's a pity she didn't choose a more convenient
moment. I'm sorry to disturb her, but '

156 THE LADrS MAID^S BELL iv

I raised myself up, aghast at the man's action.

* Sir,' said I, * are you mad ? What are you
doing ? '

' Going to meet a friend/ said he, and seemed
to make for the dressing-room.

At that my heart turned over. I don't know
what I thought or feared ; but I sprang up and
caught him by the sleeve.

^ Sir, sir/ said I, ' for pity's sake look at your
wife!'

He shook me off furiously.

' It seems that's done for me/ says he, and
caught hold of the dressing-room door.

At that moment I heard a slight noise inside.
Slight as it was, he heard it too, and tore the
door open ; but as he did so he dropped back.
On the threshold stood Emma Saxon. All was
dark behind her, but I saw her plainly, and so
did he. He threw up his hands as if to hide his
face from her ; and when I looked again she was
gone.

He stood motionless, as if the strength had
run out of him ; and in the stillness my mistress
suddenly raised herself, and opening her eyes
fixed a look on him. Then she fell back, and I
saw the death-flutter pass over her. . . .

We buried her on the third day, in a driving
snow-storm. There were few people in the
church, for it was bad weather to come from
town, and I've a notion my mistress was one
that hadn't many near friends. Mr. Ranford
was among the last to come, just before they

TV THE LADY'S MAID'S BELL 157

carried her up the aisle. He was in black, of
course, being such a friend of the family, and
I never saw a gentleman so pale. As he
passed me I noticed that he leaned a trifle on a
stick he carried ; and I fancy Mr. Brympton
noticed it too, for the red spot came out sharp
on his forehead, and all through the service he
kept staring across the church at Mr. Ranford,
instead of following the prayers as a mourner
should.

When it was over and we went out to the
graveyard, Mr. Ranford had disappeared, and
as soon as my poor mistress's body was under-
ground, Mr. Brympton jumped into the carriage
nearest the gate and drove off without a word
to any of us. I heard him call out, * To the
station,' and we servants went back alone to the
house.

THE MISSION OF JANE

»S9

Lethbury, surveying his wife across the dinner
table, found his transient glance arrested by an
indefinable change in her appearance.

^ How smart you look ! Is that a new
gown ? ' he asked.

Her answering look seemed to deprecate his
charging her vnth the extravagance of wasting a
new gown on him, and he now perceived that the
change lay deeper than any accident of dress.
At the same time, he noticed that she betrayed
her consciousness of it by a delicate, almost
frightened blush. It was one of the compensa-
tions of Mrs. Lethbury's protracted childishness
that she still blushed as prettily as at eighteen.
Her body had been privileged not to outstrip
her mind, and the two, as it seemed to Lethbury,
were destined to travel together through an
eternity of girlishness.

* I don't know what you mean,' she said.

Since she never did, he always wondered at
her bringing this out as a fresh grievance against
him ; but his wonder was unresentfiil, and he

i6i M

1 62 THE MISSION OF JANE i

said good-humouredly : * You sparkle so that I
thought you had on your diamonds.'
She sighed and blushed again.

* It must be/ he continued, * that youVe been
to a dressmaker's opening. YouVe absolutely
brimming with illicit enjoyment'

She stared again, this time at the adjective.
His adjectives always embarrassed her : their
unintelligibleness savoured of impropriety.

* In short,' he summed up, * you've been doing
something that you're thoroughly ashamed of.'

To his surprise she retorted : * I don't sec
why I should be ashamed of it ! '

Lethbury leaned back with a smile of enjoy-
ment. When there was nothing better going he
always liked to listen to her explanations.

< Well f ' he said.

She was becoming breathless and ejaculatory.
*0f course you'll laugh — ^you laugh at every-
thing ! '

* That rather blunts the point of my derision,
doesn't it ? ' he interjected ; but she pushed on
without noticing :

* It's so easy to laugh at things.'

* Ah,' murmured Lethbury with relish, * that's
your Aunt Sophronia's, isn't it ? '

Most of his wife's opinions were heirlooms,
and he took a quaint pleasure in tracing their
descent. She was proud of their age, and saw
no reason for discarding them while they were
still serviceable. Some, of course, were so fine
that she kept them for state occasions, like her

I THE MISSION OF JANE 163

great -grandmother's Crown Derby ; but from
Sie lady known as Aunt Sophronia she had
inherited a stout set of every-day prejudices that
were practically as good as new ; whereas her
husband's, as she noticed, were always having to
be replaced. In the early days she had fancied
there might be a certam satisfaction in taxing him
with the fact ; but she had long since been
silenced by the reply : * My dear, I m not a rich
man, but I never use an opinion twice if I can
help it/

She was reduced, therefore, to dwelling on
his moral deficiencies ; and one of the most
obvious of these was his refusal to take things
seriously. On this occasion, however, some
ulterior purpose kept her from taking up lus
taunt.

^ Tm not in the least ashamed ! ' she repeated,
with the air of shaking a banner to the wind ;
but the domestic atmosphere being calm, the
banner drooped unheroically.

* That,' said Lethbury judicially, * encourages
me to infer that you ought to be, and that,
consequently, you've been giving yourself the
unusual pleasure of doing something I shouldn't
approve of.'

She met this with an almost solemn directness.
* No,' she said. * You won't approve of it. I've
allowed for that.'

* Ah,' he exclaimed, setting down his liqueur-
glass. * You've worked out the whole problem,
eh?'

1 64 THE MISSION OF JANE i

* I bdievc so/

' That's uncommonly interesting. And what

She looked at him quietly. < A baby.'
If it was seldom given her to surprise him,
she had attained the distinction for once.
*Ababy?*
*Yes.'

* A — ^human baby ? '

* Of course ! ' she cried, with the virtuous
resentment of the woman who has never allowed
dogs in the house.

Lethbury's puzzled stare broke into a fresh
smile. *A baby I shan't approve of? Well,
in the abstract I don't tlunk much of them, I
admit. Is this an abstract baby ? '

Again she frowned at the adjective ; but she
had reached a pitch of exaltation at which such
obstacles could not deter her.

* It's the loveliest baby ' she murmured.

*Ah, then it's concrete. It exists. In this

harsh world it draws its breath in pain '

^ It's the healthiest child I ever saw ! ' she
indignantly corrected.

* I ou've seen it, then ? '

Again the accusing blush suffused her. < Yes
— I've seen it.'

^ And to whom does the paragon belong ? '

And here indeed she confounded him. ^ To
me — I hope,' she declared.

He pushed lus chair back with an articulate
murmur. * To you ? '

I THE MISSION OF JANE 165

* To usy she corrected,

^ Good Lord ! * he said. If there had been
the least hint of hallucination in her transparent
gaze — but no : it was as clear, as shallow, as
easily fathomable as when he had first suffered
the sharp surprise of striking bottom in it.

It occurred to him that perhaps she was
trying to be funny : he knew that there is
nothing more cryptic than the humour of the
unhumorous.

* Is it a joke ? ' he faltered.

^ Oh, I hope not. I want it so much to be
a reality *

He paused to smile at the limitations of a
world in which jokes were not realities, and con-
tinued gently : * But since it is one already *

^ To us, I mean : to you and me. I want
-* her voice wavered, and her eyes with it.

^ I have always wanted so dreadfully ... it has
been such a disappointment . . . not to . . .'

* I see,* said Lethbury slowly.

But he had not seen before. It seemed
curious now that he had never thought of her
taking it in that way, had never surmised any
hidden depths beneath her outspread obvious*
ness. He felt as though he had touched a secret
spring in her mind.

There was a moment's silence, moist and
tremulous on her part, awkward and slightly
irritated on his.

* YouVe been lonely, I suppose ? ' he began.
It was odd, having suddenly to reckon with

1 66 THE MISSION OF JANE i

the stranger who gazed at him out of her trivial
eyes.

* At times/ she said.

* I'm sorry.*

* It was not your fault. A man has so many
occupations; and women who are clever — or
very handsome — I suppose that's an occupation
too. Sometimes I've felt that when dinner was
ordered I had nothing to do till the next day.'

* Oh/ he groaned.

* It wasn't your fault,' she insisted. * I never
told you — but when I chose that rose-bud
paper for the front room upstairs, I always
thought '

* Well ? '

* It would be such a pretty paper — ^for a baby
— to wake up in. That was years ago, of
course ; but it was rather an expensive paper
. . . and it hasn't faded in the least . . .' she
broke off incoherently.

* It hasn't faded ? '

* No— and so I thought ... as we don't
use the room for anything . . . now that Aunt
Sophronia is dead ... I thought I might . . .
you might ... oh, Julian, if you could only
have seen it just waking up in its crib ! '

*Seen what — where? You haven't got a
baby upstairs ? '

* Oh, no^not yet^ she said, with her rare
laugh — the girlish bubbling of merriment that
had seemed one of her chief graces in the early
dajrs. It occurred to him that he had not given

I THE MISSION OF JANE 167

her enough things to laugh about lately. But
then she needed such very elementary things :
she was as difficult to amuse as a savage. He
concluded that he was not sufficiently simple.

* Alice,* he said almost solemnly, *what do
you mean } *

She hesitated a moment : he saw her gather
her courage for a supreme efFort. Then she
said slowly, gravely, as though she were pro-
nouncing a sacramental phrase :

* I'm so lonely without a little child — and I
thought perhaps you'd let me adopt one. . . .
It's at the hospitd • • . its mother is dead . . .
and I could ... pet it, and dress it, and do
things for it . . . and it's such a good baby
. . . you can ask any of the nurses ... it
would never, never bother you by crying. . . .*

Lethbury accompanied his wife to the hospital
in a mood of chastened wonder. It did not
occur to him to oppose her wisL He knew, of
course, that he would have to bear the brunt of
the situation : the jokes at the club, the enquiries,
the explanations. He saw himself in the comic
role of the adopted hihcr and welcomed it as
an expiation. For in his rapid reconstruction
of the past he found himself cutting a shabbier
^gure than he cared to admit. He had always
/ been intolerant of stupid people, and it was his
\ punishment to be convicted of stupidity. As his
mind traversed the years between his marriage
and this unexpected assumption of paternity, he
saw, in the light of an overheated imagination,
many signs of unwonted crassness. It was not
that he had ceased to think his wife stupid : she
was stupid, limited, inflexible ; but there was a
pathos in the struggles of her swaddled mind, in
its blind reachings toward the primal emotions.
He had always thought she would have been
happier with a child; but he had thought it
mechanically, because it had so often been

i68

II THE MISSION OF JANE i^

thought before, because it was in the nature
of things to think it of every woman, because
his wife was so eminently one of a species that
she fitted into all the generalizations on the
sex. But he had regarded this generalization as
merely typical of the triumph of tradition over
experience. Maternity was no doubt the supreme
function of primitive woman, the one end to
which her whole organism tended ; but the law
of increasing complexity had operated in both
sexes, and he had not seriously supposed that,
outside the world of Christmas fiction and anec-
dotic art, such truisms had any special hold on
the feminine imagination. Now he saw that the
arts in question were kept alive by the vitality
of the sentiments they appealed to.

Lethbury was in fact going through a rapid
process of readjustment. His marriage had been
a failure, but he had preserved toward his wife
the exact fidelity of act that is sometimes sup-
posed to excuse any divagation of feeling ; so
that, for years, the tie between them had con-
sisted mainly in his abstaining from making
love to other women. The abstention had not
always been easy, for the world is surprisingly
well-stocked with the kind of woman one ought
to have married but did not ; and Lethbury had
not escaped the solicitation of such alternatives.
His immunity had been purchased at the cost of
taking refuge in the somewhat rarefied atmosphere
of his perceptions; and his world being thus
limited, he had given unusual care to its details,

I70 THE MISSION OF JANE ii

compensating himself for the narrowness of his
horizon by the minute finish of his foreground.
It was a world of fine shadings and the nicest
proportions, where impulse seldom set a blunder-
ing foot, and the feast of reason was undisturbed
by an intemperate flow of soul. To such a
banquet his wife naturally remained uninvited.
The diet would have disagreed with her, and
she would probably have objected to the other
guests. But Lethbury, miscalculating her needs,
had hitherto supposed that he had made ample
provision for them, and was consequently at
liberty to enjoy his own fare without any re-
proach of mendicancy at his gates. Now he
beheld her pressing a starved i&ce against the
windows of his life, and in his imaginative
reaction he invested her with a pathos borrowed
from the sense of his own shortcomings.

In the hospital the imaginative process con-
tinued with increasing force. He looked at his
wife with new eyes. Formerly she had been to
him a mere bundle of negations, a labyrinth of
dead walls and bolted doors. There was nothing
behind the walls, and the doors led nowhither :
he had sounded and listened often enough to be
sure of that. Now he felt like a traveller who,
exploring some ancient ruin, comes on an inner
cell, intact amid the general dilapidation, and
painted with images which reveal the forgotten
uses of the building.

His wife stood by a white crib in one of the
wards. In the crib lay a child, a year old, the

'
J

n THE MISSION OF JANE 171

nurse affirmed, but to Lethbury*s eye a mere
dateless fragment of humanity projected against
a background of conjecture. Over this anony-
mous particle of life Mrs. Lethbury leaned, such
ecstasy reflected in her face as strikes up, in
Corrcggio's Night-piece, from the child's body
to the mother's countenance. It was a light
that irradiated and dazzled her. She looked up
at an enquiry of Lethbury's, but as their glances
met he perceived that she no longer saw him,
that he had become as invisible to her as she
had long been to him. He had to transfer his
question to the nurse.

* What is the child's name f ' he asked.

* We call her Jane,' said the nurse.

Ill

Lbthburv, at first, had resisted the idea of a
legal adoption ; but when he found that his wife
could not be brought to regard the child as hers
till it had been made so by process of law, he
promptly withdrew his objection. On one point
only he remained inflexible ; and that was the
changing of the waif's name. Mrs. Lethbury,
almost at once, had expressed a wish to rechristen
it : she fluctuated between Muriel and Gladys,
deferring the moment of decision like a lady
waverinc between two bonnets. But Lethbury
was unyielding. In the general surrender of h^
prejudices this one alone neld out.

* But Jane is so dreadful,' Mrs. Lethbury
protested.

*Well, we don't know that she won't be
dreadful. She may grow up a Jane.*

His wife exclaimed reproachfully, * The nurse
says she's the loveliest '

* Don't they always say that ? ' asked Lethbury
patiently. He was prepared to be inexhaustibly
patient now that he had reached a firm foothold
of opposition.

17a

Ill THE MISSION OF JANE 173

* It's cruel to call her Jane/ Mrs. Lethbury
pleaded.

^ It's ridiculous to call her Muriel.'
*The nurse is sure she must be a lady's
child.'

Lethbury winced : he had tried, all along,
to keep his mind off the question of ante-
cedents.

* Well, let her prove it,' he said, with a rising
sense of exasperation. He wondered how he
could ever have allowed himself to be drawn
into such a ridicidous business ; for the first time
he felt the full irony of it. He had visions
of coming home in the afternoon to a house
smelling of linseed and paregoric, and of
being greeted by a chronic howl as he went
upst^rs to dress for dinner. He had never
been a dub-man, but he saw himself becoming
one now.

The worst of his anticipations were unful-
filled. The baby was surprisingly well and
surprisingly quiet. Such infantile remedies as
she absorbed were not potent enough to be per-
ceived beyond the nursery ; and when Lethbury
could be induced to enter that sanctuary, there
was nothing to jar his nerves in the mild pink
presence or his adopted daughter. Jars there
were, indeed : they were probably inevitable in
the disturbed routine of the household ; but
they occurred between Mrs. Lethbury and the
nurses, and Jane contributed to them only a

,4 THE MISSION OF JANE iii

placid stare which might have served as a rebuke
to the combatants.

In the reaction from his first impulse of
atonement, Lethbury noted with sharpened per-
ceptions the effect of the change on his wife's
character. He saw already the error of sup-
posing that it could work any transformation in
her. It simply magnified her existing qualities.
I She was like a dried sponge put in water : she
expanded, but she did not change her shape.
From the stand-point of scientific observation it
was curious to see how her stored instincts re-
sponded to the pseudo-maternal call. She over-
flowed with the petty maxims of the occasion.
One felt in her the epitome, the consummation,
of centuries of animal maternity, so that this
little woman, who screamed at a mouse and was
nervous about burglars, came to typify the cave-
mother rending 'her prey for her young.

It was less easy to regard philosophically the
practical effects of her borrowed motherhood.
Lethbury found with surprise that she was be-
coming assertive and definite. She no longer
represented the negative side of his life ; she
showed, indeed, a tendency to inconvenient
affirmations. She had gradually expanded her
assumption of motherhood till it included his
own share in the relation, and he suddenly found
himself regarded as the father of Jane. This
was a contingency he had not foreseen, and it
took all his philosophy to accept it ; but there
were moments of compensation. For Mrs.

Ill THE MISSION OF JANE 175

Lethbiuy was undoubtedly happy for the first
time in years ; and the thought that he had
tardily contributed to this end reconciled him to
the irony of the means.

At first he was inclined to reproach himself
for still viewing the situation from the outside,
for remaining a spectator instead of a parti-
cipant. He had been allured, for a moment,
by the vision of severed hands meeting over a
cradle, as the whole body of domestic fiction
bears witness to their doing ; and the fact that
no such conjunction took place he could explain
only on the ground that it was a borrowed
cradle. He did not dislike the little girl. She
still remained to him a hypothetical presence, a
query rather than a fact ; but her nearness was
not unpleasant, and there were moments when
her tentative utterances, her groping steps,
seemed to loosen the dry accretibns enveloping
his inner self. But even at such moments —
moments which he invited and caressed — she
did not bring him nearer to his wife. He now
perceived that he had made a certain place in
his life for Mrs. Lethbury, and that she no
longer fitted into it. It was too late to enlarge
the space, and so she overflowed and encroached.
Lethbury struggled against the sense of sub-
mergence. He let down barrier after barrier,
yielding privacy after privacy ; but his wife's
personality continued to dilate. She was no
longer herself alone : she was herself and Jane.
Gradually, in a monstrous fusion of identity, she

176 THE MISSION OF JANE ni

became herself, himself and Jane ; and instead
of trying to adapt her to a spare crevice of his
character, he found himself carelessly squeezed
into the smallest compartment of the domestic
economy.

He continued to tell himself that he was satisfied
if his wife was happy ; and it was not till the
child's tenth year that he felt a doubt of her
happiness.

Jane had been a preternaturally good child.
During the eight years of her adoption she had
caused her foster-parents no anxiety beyond
those connected with the usual succession of
youthful diseases. But her unknown progeni-
tors had given her a robust constitution, and
she passed unperturbed through measles, chicken-
pox and whooping-cough. If there was any
suffering it was endured vicariously by Mrs.
Lethbury, whose temperature rose and fell with
the patient's, and who could not hear Jane
sneeze without visions of a marble angel weep-
ing over a broken column. But though Jane's
prompt recoveries continued to belie such pre-
monitions, though her existence continued to
move forward on an even keel of good health
and good conduct, Mrs. Lethbury's satisfaction
showed no corresponding advance. Lethbury,
at first, was disposed to add her disappointment

177 N

178 THE MISSION OF JANE iv

to the long list of feminine inconsistencies with
which the sententious observer of life builds up
his favourite induction ; but circumstances pre-
sently led him to take a kindlier view of the case.

Hitherto his wife had r^arded him as a
negligible factor in Jane's evolution. Beyond
providing for his adopted daughter, and effac-
ing himself before her, he was not expected to
contribute to her well-being. But as time
passed he appeared to his wLre in a new light.
It was he who was to educate Jane. In matters
of the intellect, Mrs. Lethbury was the first to
declare her deficiencies — ^to proclaim them, even,
with a certain virtuous superiority. She said she
did not pretend to be clever, and there was no
denying the truth of the assertion. Now, how-
ever, she seemed less ready, not to own her
limitations, but to glory in them. G>nfronted
with the problem or Jane's instruction she stood
in awe of^ the child.

* I have always been stupid, you know,' she
said to Lethbury with a new humility, ^ and I'm
afraid I shan't know what is best for Jane. I'm
sure she has a wonderfully good mind, and I
should reproach myself if I didn't give her every
opportunity,' She looked at him helplessly,
* You must tell me what ought to be done.'

Lethbury was not unwilling to oblige her.
Somewhere in his mental lumber-room there
rusted a theory of education such as usually
lingers among the impedimenta of the childless.
He brought this out, refurbished it, and applied

IV THE MISSION OF JANE 179

it to Jane. At first he thought his wife had
not overrated the quality of the child's mind.
Jane seemed extraordinarily intelligent. Her
precocious definiteness of mind was encouraging
to her inexperienced preceptor. She had no
difficulty in fixing her attention, and he felt
that every fact he imparted was being etched
in metal. He helped his wife to engage the
best teachers, and for a while continued to take
an ex-official interest in his adopted daughter's
studies. But gradually his interest waned.
Jane's ideas did not increase with her acqui*
sitions. Her young mind remained a mere
receptacle for facts : a kind of cold-storage
from which anything which had been put there
could be taken out at a moment's notice, intact
but congealed. She developed, moreover, an
inordinate pride in the capacity of her mental
storehouse, and a tendency to pelt her public
with its contents. She was overheard to jeer at her
nurse for not knowing when the Saxon Hept-
archy had fallen, and she alternately dazzled
and depressed Mrs. Lethbury by the wealth of
her chronological allusions. She showed no
interest in the significance of the facts she
amassed : she simply collected dates as another
child might have collected stamps or marbles.
To her foster-mother she seemed a prodigy of
wisdom ; but Lethbury saw, with a secret
movement of sympathy, how the aptitudes in
which Mrs. Lethbury gloried were slowly
estranging her from her chUd.

i8o THE MISSION OF JANE iv

* She is getting too clever for me,* his wife
said to him, after one of Jane's historical flights,
^ but I am so glad that she will be a companion
to you.*

Lethbury groaned in spirit. He did not
look forward to Jane's companionship. She
was still a good little girl : but there was some-
thing automatic and formal in her goodness,
as though it were a kind of moral c^isthenics

\ which she went through for the sake of showing
her agility. An early consciousness of virtue had
moreover constituted her the natural guardian
and adviser of her elders. Before she was
fifteen she had set about reforming the house-
hold. She took Mrs. Lethbury in hand first ;
then she extended her efforts to the servants,
with consequences more disastrous to the
domestic harmony ; and lastly she applied
herself to Lethbury. She proved to him by
statistics that he smoked too much, and that
it was injurious to the optic nerve to read in
bed. She took him to task for not going to
church more regularly, and pointed out to him
the evils of desultory reading. She suggested
that a regular course of study encourages mental
concentration, and hinted that inconsecutiveness
of thought is a sign of approaching age.

To her adopt^ mother her suggestions were
equally pertinent. She instructed Mrs. Lethbury
in an improved way of making beef stock, and
called her attention to the unhygienic qualities
of carpets. She poured out distracting facts

IV THE MISSION 01? JANE i8i

about bacilli and vegetable mould, and demon-
strated that curtains and picture-frames are a
hot-bed of animal organisms. She learnt by
heart the nutritive ingredients of the principal
articles of diet, and revolutionized the cuisine
by an attempt to establish a scientific average
between starch and phosphates. Four cooks
left during this experiment, and Lethbury fell
into the habit of dining at his club.

Once or twice, at the outset, he had tried to
check Jane's ardour ; but his efforts resulted
only in hurting his wife's feelings. Jane re-
mained impervious, and Mrs. Lethbury resented
any attempt to protect her from her daughter.
Lethbury saw that she was consoled for the
sense of her own inferiority by the thought of
what Jane's intellectual companionship must be
to him ; and he tried to keep up the illusion
by enduring with what grace he might the
blighting edification of Jane's discourse.

# -^ »

As Jane grew up he sometimes avenged himself
by wondering if his wife was still sorry that
they had not called her Muriel. Jane was not
ugly ; she developed, indeed, a lund of cate-
gorical prettiness which might have been a
projection of her mind. She had a creditable
collection of features, but one had to take an
inventory of them to find out that she was
good-looking. The fusing grace had been
omitted.

Mrs. Lethbury took a touching pride in her
daughter's first steps in the world. She ex-
pected Jane to take by her complexion those
whom she did not capture by her learning.
But Jane's rosy freshness did not work any
perceptible ravages. Whether the young men
guessed the axioms on her lips and detected the
encyclopaedia in her eye, or whether they simply
found no intrinsic interest in these features,
certain it is, that, in spite of her mother's heroic
efforts, and of incessant calls on Lethbury 's
purse, Jane, at the end of her first season, had
tflropped hopelessly out of the running. A few

i8a

V THE MISSION OF JANE 183

duller girls found her interesting, and one or
two young men came to the house with the
object of meeting other young women ; but she
was rapidly becoming one of the social super-
numeraries who are asked out only because they
are on people's lists.

The blow was bitter to Mrs. Lethbury ; but
she consoled herself with the idea that Jane had
failed because she was too clever. Jane probably
shared this conviction ; at all events she betrayed
no consciousness of failure. She had developed
a pronounced taste for society, and went out,
unweariedly and obstinately, winter after winter,
while Mrs. Lethbury toiled in her wake, shower-
ing attentions on oblivious hostesses. To Leth-
bury there was something at once tragic and
exasperating in the sight of their two figures,
the one conciliatory, the other dogged, both
pursuing with unabated zeal the elusive prize
of popularity. He even began to feel a personal
stake in the pursuit, not as it concerned Jane
but as it afiected his wife. He saw that the
latter was the victim of Jane's disappointment :
that Jane was not above the crude satisfaction
of * taking it out ' of her mother. Experience
checked the impulse to come to his wife's
defence ; and when his resentment was at its
height, Jane disarmed him by giving up the
struggle.

Nothing was said to mark her capitulation ;
but Lethbury noticed that the visiting ceased
and that the dressmaker's bills diminished. At

1 84 THE MISSION OF JANE v

the same time Mrs. Lethbury made it known
that Jane had taken up charities ; and before
long Jane's conversation confirmed this an-
nouncement. At first Lethbury congratulated
himself on the change ; but Jane's domesticity
soon began to weigh on him. During the day
she was sometimes absent on errands of mercy ;
but in the evening she was always there. At
first she and Mrs. Lethbury sat in the drawing-
room together, and Lethbury smoked in the
library ; but presently Jane formed the habit
of joining him there, and he began to suspect
that he was included among the objects of her
philanthropy.

Mrs. Lethbury confirmed the suspicion.
^Jane has grown very serious-minded lately/
she said. * ohe imagines that she used to neglect
you, and she is trying to make up for it. Don't
discourage her/ she added innocently.

Such a plea delivered Lethbury helpless to
his daughter's ministrations ; and he found
himself measuring the hours he spent mth her
by the amount of relief they must be affording
her mother. There were even moments when he
read a furtive gratitude in Mrs. Lethbury's eye.

But Lethbury was no hero, and he had
nearly reached the limit of vicarious endurance
when something wonderful happened. They
never quite knew afterward how it had come
about, or who first perceived it ; but Mrs.
Lethbury one day gave tremulous voice to their
discovery.

V THE MISSION OF JANE 185

•Of course/ she said, *he comes here be-
cause of Elise/ The young lady in question, a
friend of Jane's, was possessed of attractions
which had already been found to explain the
presence of masculine visitors.

Lethbury risked a denial. *I don't think
he does,' he declared.

*But Elise is thought very pretty,' Mrs.
Lethbury insisted.

* I can't help that,* said Lethbury doggedly.
He saw a faint light in his wife's eyes ; but

she remarked carelessly : * Mr. Budd would be
a very good match for Elise.'

Lethbury could hardly repress a chuckle : he
was so exquisitely aware that she was trying to
propitiate the gods.

For a few weeks neither said ar word ; then
Mrs. Lethbury once more reverted to the
subject.

* It is a month since Elise went abroad,* she
said.

*Isit?*

* And Mr. Budd seems to come here just as
often '

* Ah,* said Lethbury with heroic indifference ;
and lus Tnfe hastily changed the subject.

Mr. Winstanley Budd was a young man
who suflered from an excess of manner. Polite-
ness gushed from him in the driest seasons.
He was always performing feats of drawing-
room chivalry, and the approach of the most
imobtilisive female threw him into attitudes

1 86 THE MISSION OF JANE v

; which endangered the furniture. His features,
being of the cherubic order, did not lend them-
selves to this role ; but there were moments
when he appeared to dominate them, to force
them into compliance with an aquiline ideal.
The range of Mr. Budd's social benevolence
made its object hard to distinguish. He spread
his cloak so indiscriminately that one could not
always interpret the gesture, and Jane's im-
passive manner had the effect of increasing his
demonstrations : she threw him into paroxysms
of politeness.

At first he filled the house with his ameni-
ties ; but gradually it became apparent that his
most dazzling effects were directed exclusively
to Jane. Lethbury and his wife held their
breath and looked away from each other. They
pretended not to notice the frequency of Mr.
Budd's visits, they struggled agsdnst an impru-
dent inclination to leave the young people too
much alone. Their conclusions were the result
of indirect observation, for neither of them
dared to be caught watching Mr. Budd : they
behaved like naturalists on the trail of a rare
butterfly.

In his efForts not to notice Mr. Budd, Leth-
bury centred his attentions on Jane ; and Jane,
at this crucial moment, wrung from him a
reluctant admiration. While her parents went
about dissembling their emotions, she seemed
to have none to conceal. She betrayed neither
eagerness nor surprise ; so complete was her

V THE MISSION OF JANE 187

unconcern that there were moments when Leth-
bury feared it was obtuseness, when he could
hardly help whispering to her that now was the
moment to lower the net.

Meanwhile the velocity of Mr. Budd*s gyra-
tions increased with the ardour of courtship : his
politeness became incandescent, and Jane found
herself the centre of a pyrotechnical display
culminating in the 'set piece' of an offer of
marriage.

Mrs. Lethbury imparted the news to her
husband one evening after their daughter had
gone to bed. The announcement was made
and received with an air of detachment, as
though both feared to be betrayed into un-
seemly exultation ; but Lethbury, as his wife
ended, could not repress the enquiry, *Have
they decided on a day ? *

Mrs. Lethbury's superior command of her
features enabled her to look shocked. *What
can you be thinking of? He only offered
himself at five ! '

* Of course — of course — ' stammered Leth-
bury — *but nowadays people marry after such
short engagements r-'

* Engagement ! * said his wife solemnly.
* There is no engagement/

Lethbury dropped his cigar. *What on
earth do you mean ? '

* Jane is thinking it over.'

* Thinking it over ? *

' She has asked for a month before deciding/

1 88 THE MISSION OF JANE v

Lethbury sank back with a gasp. Was it
genius or was it madness ? lie felt incom-
petent to decide ; and Mrs. Lethbury's next
words showed that she shared his difficulty.

* Of course I don't want to hurry Jane '

* Of course not,' he acquiesced.

' But I pointed out to her that a young man
of Mr. Budd's impulsive temperament might —
might be easily discouraged '

* Yes ; and what did she say ? '

^ She said that if she was worth winning she
was worth waiting for.'

The period of Mr. Budd's probation could
scarcely have cost him as much mental anguish
as it caused his would-be parents-in-law.

Mrs. Lethbury, by various ruses, tried to
shorten the ordeal, but Jane remained inexor-
able ; and each morning Lethbury came down
to breakfast with the certainty of finding a letter
of withdrawal from her discouraged suitor.

When at length the decisive day came, and
Mrs. Lethbury, at its close, stole into the library
with an air of chastened joy, they stood for a
moment without speaking ; then Mrs. Lethbury
paid a fitting tribute to the proprieties by falter-
ing out : * It will be dreadful to have to give
her up '

Lethbury could not repress a warning ges-
ture ; but even as it escaped him he raized
that his wife's grief was genuine.

* Of course, of course,' he said, vainly sound-
ing his own emotional shallows for an answering
r^ret. And yet it was his wife who had suffered
most from Jane !

He had fancied that these sufferings would

189

I90 THE MISSION OF JANE vi

be efFaced by the milder atmosphere of their
last weeks together ; but felicity did not soften
Jane. Not for a moment did she relax her
dominion : she simply widened it to include a
new subject. Mr. Budd found himself under
orders with the others ; and a new fear assailed
Lethbury as he saw Jane assume pre-nuptial
control of her betrothed. Lethbury had never
felt any strong personal interest in Mr. Budd ;
but as* Jane's prospective husband the yoimg
man excited his sympathy. To his surprise he
found that Mrs. Lethbury shared the feeling.

* I'm afraid he may find Jane a little exact-
ing/ she said, after an evening dedicated to a
stormy discussion of the wedding arrangements.
' She really ought to make some concessions. If
he wanfs to be married in a black frock-coat

instead of a dark gray one ^ She paused

and looked doubtfully at Lethbury.

* What can I do aoout it ? ' he said.

*You might explain to him — tell him that
Jane isn't always ^

Lethbury made an impatient gesture. * What
are you afraid of ? His finding her out or his
not finding her out ? '

Mrs. Lethbury flushed. *You put it so
dreadfully ! '

Her husband mused for a moment ; then he
said mth an air of cheerful hypocrisy : * After
all, Budd is old enough to take care of himself.'

But the next day Mrs. Lethbury surprised
him. Late in the afternoon she entered the

VI THE MISSION OF JANE 191

library, so breathless and inarticulate that he
scented a catastrophe.

* I've done it ! ' she cried.

* Done what ? '

* Told him/ She nodded toward the door.
* He's just gone. Jane is out, and I had a
chance to talk to him alone.'

Lethbury pushed a chair forward and she
sank into it.

* What did you tell him f That she is nof
always *

Mrs. Lethbury lifted a tragic eye. * No ; I
told him. that she always is '

* Always is ? *

* Yes.'

There was a pause. Lethbury made a call
on his hoarded philosophy. He saw Jane sud-
denly reinstated in her evening seat by the
library fire ; but an answering chord in him
thrilled at his wife's heroism.

* Well — ^what did he say ? '

Mrs. Lethbury 's agitation deepened. It was
dear that the blow had fallen.

^He ... he said . . . that we . . . had
never understood Jane ... or appreciated her
. . .' The final syllables "were lost in her
handkerchief, and she left him marvelling at
the mechanism of woman.

After that, Lethbury faced the future with
an undaunted eye. They had done their duty
— at least his wife had done hers — and they
were reaping the usual harvest of ingratitude

192 THE MISSION OF JANE vi

with a zest seldom accorded to such reaping.
There was a marked change in Mr. Budd's
manner, and his increasing coldness sent a
genial glow through Lethbury's system. It
was easy to bear with Jane in the light of
Mr. Budd's disapproval.

There was a good deal to be borne in the
last days, and the brunt of it fell on Mrs.
Lethbury. Jane marked her transition to the
married state by a seasonable but incongruous
display of nerves. She became sentimental,
hysterical and reluctant. She quarrelled with
her betrothed and threatened to return the ring.
Mrs. Lethbury had to intervene, and Lethbury
felt the hovering sword of destiny. But the
blow was suspended. Mr. Budd's chivalry was
proof against all his bride's caprices and his
devotion throve on her cruelty. Lethbury
feared that he was too fsuthful, too enduring,
and longed to urge him to vary his tactics.
Jane presently reappeared with the ring on her
finger, and consented to try on the wedding*
dress ; but her uncertainties, her reactions, were
prolonged till the final day.

When it dawned, Lethbury was still in an
ecstasy of apprehension. F^ing reasonably
sure of the principal actors he had centred his
fears on incidental possibilities. The clergyman
might have a stroke, or the church might burn
down, or there might be something wrong with
the license. He did all that was humanly
possible to avert such contingencies, but there

VI THE MISSION OF JANE 193

remained that incalculable factor known as the
hand of God. Lethbury seemed to feel it
groping for him.

At the altar it almost had him by the nape.
Mr. Budd was late ; and for five immeasurable
minutes Lethbury and Jane faced a churchful
of conjecture. Then the bridegroom appeared,
flushed but chivalrous, and explaining to his
father-in-law under cover of the ritual that he
had torn his glove and had to go back for
another.

* You'll be losing the ring next,' muttered
Lethbury ; but Mr. Budd produced this article
punctually, and a moment or two later was
bearing its wearer captive down the aisle.

At the wedding-breakfast Lethbury caught
his wife's eye fixed on him in mild disapproval,
and understood that his hilarity was exceeding
the bounds of fitness. He pulled himself
together and tried to subdue his tone ; but his
jubilation bubbled oyer like a champagne-glass
perpetually refilled. The deeper his draughts
the higher it rose.

It was at the brim when, in the wake of the
dispersing guests, Jane came down in her
travelling-dress and fell on her mother s neck.

* I can't leave you ! ' she wailed, and Lethbury
felt as suddenly sobered as a man under a
douche. But if the bride was reluctant her
captor was relentless. Never had Mr. Budd
been more dominant, more aquiline. Leth-
bury 's last fears were dissipated as the young

194 THE MISSION OF JANE vi

man snatched Jane from her mother's bosom
and bore her off to the brougham.

The brougham rolled away, the last milliner's
girl forsook her post by the awning, the red
carpet was folded up, and the house door closed.
Lethbury stood alone in the hall with his wife.
As he turned toward her, he noticed the look
of tired heroism in her eyes, the deepened lines
of her face. They reflected his own symptoms
too accurately not to appeal to him. The
nervous tension had been horrible. He went
up to her, and an answering impulse made her
lay a hand on his arm. rie held it there a
moment.

* Let us go off* and have a jolly little dinner
at a restaurant,' he proposed.

There had been a time when such a sug-
gestion would have surprised her to the verge
of disapproval ; but now she agreed to it at
once.

* Oh, that would be so nice,' she murmured
with a great sigh of relief and assuagement.

Jane had fulfilled her mission atter all : she
had drawn them together at last.

THE RECKONING

'95

,■*

* The marriage law of the new dispensation will
be : 2'hou shah not be unfaithful — to thyself.^

A discreet murmur of approval filled the
studio, and through the haze of cigarette smoke
Mrs. Clement Westall, as her husband descended
from his improvised platform, saw him merged
in a congratulatory group of ladies. Westall's
informal talks on * The New Ethics * had drawn
about him an eager following of the mentally
unemployed — those who, as he had once phrased
it, Uked to have their brain -food cut up for
them. The talks had begun by accident.
Westall's ideas were known to be * advanced,'
but hitherto their advance had not been in the
direction of publicity. He had been, in his
wife's opinion, almost pusillanimously careful
not to let his personal views endanger his pro-
.fessional standing. Of late, however, he had
shown a puzzling tendency to dogmatize, to
throw down the gauntlet, to flaunt his private
code in the face of society ; and the relation of
the sexes being a topic always sure of an audience,
a few admiring friends had persuaded him to

197

198 THE RECKONING 1

give lus after-dinner opinions a larger circulation
by summing them up in a series of talks at the
Van Sideren studio.

The Herbert Van Siderens were a couple who
subsisted, socially, on the fact that they had a
studio. Van Sideren's pictures were chiefly
valuable as accessories to the mise en scene which
differentiated his wife's * afternoons' from the
blighting functions held in long New York
drawing-rooms, and permitted her to offer their
friends whisky-and-soda instead of tea. Mrs.
Van Sideren, for her part, was skilled in making
the most of the kind of atmosphere which a lay-
figure and an easel create ; and if at times she
found the illusion hard to maintain, and lost
courage to the extent of almost wishing that
Herbert could paint, she promptly overcame
such moments of weakness by calling in some
fresh talent, some extraneous re-enforcement of
the * artistic' impression. It was in quest of
such aid that she had seized on Westall, coaxing
him, somewhat to his wife's surprise, into a
flattered participation in her fraud. It was
vaguely felt, in the Van Sideren circle, that all
the audacities were artistic, and that a teacher
who pronounced marriage immoral was somehow
as distinguished as a painter who depicted purple
grass and a green sky. The Van Sideren set
were tired of the conventional colour-scheme in
art and conduct.

Julia Westall had long had her own views
on the immorality of marriage ; she might indeed.

I THE RECKONING 199

have claimed her husband as a disciple. In the
early days of their union she had secretly resented
his disinclination to proclaim himself a follower
of the new creed ; had been inclined to tax him
with moral cowardice, with a failure to live up
to the convictions for which their marriage was
supposed to stand. That was in the first burst
of propagandism, when, womanlike, she wanted
to turn her disobedience into a law. Now she
felt difFerendy. She could hardly account for
the change, yet being a woman who never allowed
her impulses to remain unaccounted for, she tried
to do so by saying that she did not care to have
the articles of her faith misinterpreted by the
vulgar. In this connection, she was beginning
to think that almost every one was vulgar ;
certainly there were few to whom she would
have cared to intrust the defence of so esoteric
a doctrine. And it was precisely at this point
that Westall, discarding his unspoken principles,
had chosen to descend from the heights of
privacy, and stand hawking his convictions at
the street-corner !

It was Una Van Sideren who, on this occa-
sion, unconsciously focussed upon herself Mrs.
Westall's wandering resentment. In the first
place, the girl had no business to be there. It
was * horrid ' — Mrs. Westall found herself slip-
ping back into the old feminine vocabulary —
simply * horrid ' to think of a young girl's being
allowed to listen to such talk. The fact that
Una smoked cigarettes and sipped an occasional

200 THE RECKONING r

cocktul did not in the least tarnish a certain
radiant innocency which made her appear the
victim, rather than the accomplice, of her
parents* vulgarities. Julia Westall felt in a
hot helpless way that something ought to be
done — that some one ought to speak to the
girl's mother. And just then Una glided up.

* Oh, Mrs. Westall, how beautiful it was ! *
Una fixed her with latge limpid eyes. *You
believe it all, I suppose ? she asked with seraphic
gravity.

* All — what, my dear child ? '

The girl shone on her. * About the higher
life — the freer expansion of the individual — ^the
law of fidelity to one's self,' she glibly recited.

Mrs. Westall, to her own wonder, blushed a
deep and burning blush.

* My dear Una,' she said, * you don't in the
least understand what it's all about 1 '

Miss Van Sideren stared, with a slowly
answering blush. * Don't you^ then ? ' she
murmured.

Mrs. Westall laughed. *Not always — or
altogether ! But I should like some tea,
please.'

Una led her to the corner where innocent
beverages were dispensed. As Julia received
her cup she scrutinized the girl more carefully.
It was not such a girlish face, after all— definite
lines were forming under the rosy haze of youth.
She reflected that Una must be six-and-twenty,
and wondered why she had not married. A

I THE RECKONING 201

nice stock of ideas she would have as her dower !
If they were to be a part of the modern girl's

trousseau

Mrs. Westall caught herself up with a start.
It was as though some one else had been speak-
ing — a stranger who had borrowed her own
voice : she felt herself the dupe of some fantastic
mental ventriloquism. Concluding suddenly
that the room was stifling and Una's tea too
sweet, she set down her cup and looked about
for Westall : to meet his eyes had long been
her refuge from every uncertainty. She met
them now, but only, as she felt, in transit ; they
included her parenthetically in a larger flight.
She followed the flight, and it carried her to a
corner to which Una had withdrawn — one of
the palmy nooks to which Mrs. Van Sideren
attributed the success of her Saturdays. Westall,
a moment later, had overtaken his look, and
found a place at the girl's side. She bent
forward, speaking eagerly ; he leaned back,
listening, with the depreciatory smile which
acted as a filter to flattery, enabling him to
swallow the strongest doses without apparent
grossness of appetite. Julia winced at her own
definition of the smile.

On the way home, in the deserted winter
dusk, Westall surprised his wife by a sudden
boyish pressure of her arm. * Did I open their
eyes a bit ? Did I tell them what you wanted
me to ? ' he asked gaily.

202 THE RECKONING i

Almost unconsciously, she let her arm slip
from his. * What / wanted ? '

* Why, haven't you — all this time ? ' She
caught the honest wonder of his tone. ^ I some-
how fancied you*d rather blamed me for not

talking more openly — before . You almost

made me feel, at times, that I was sacrificing
principles to expediency.'

She paused a moment over her reply ; then
she asked quietly : * What made you decide
not to — any longer ? '

She felt again the vibration of a faint surprise,
* Why — the wish to please you ! ' he answered,
almost too simply.

* I wish you would not go on, then,' she said
abruptly.

He stopped in his quick walk, and she felt
his stare through the darkness.

* Not go on ? '

* Call a hansom, please. I'm tired,' broke
from her with a sudden rush of physical
weariness.

Instantly his solicitude enveloped her. The
room had been infernally hot — and then that
confounded cigarette smoke — he had noticed
once or twice that she looked pale — she mustn't
come to another Saturday. She felt herself
yielding, as she always did, to the warm influence
of his concern for her, the feminine in her lean-
in? on the man in him with a conscious intensity
of abandonment. He put her in the hansom,
and her hand stole into his in the darkness. A

I THE RECKONING 203

tear or two rose, and she let them fall. It was
so delicious to cry over imaginary troubles !

That evening, after dinner, he surprised her
by reverting to the subject of his talk. He
combined a man's dislike of uncomfortable
questions with an almost feminine skill in elud-
ing them ; and she knew that if he returned to
the subject he must have some special reason
for doing so.

* You seem not to have cared for what I said
this afternoon. Did I put the case badly ? *

* No— you put it very well.*

*Then what did you mean by saying that
you would rather not have me go on with it ? '

She glanced at him nervously, her ignorance
of his intention deepening her sense of helpless-
ness.

*I don't think I care to hear such things
discussed in public'

*I don't understand you,* he exclaimed.
Again the feeling that his surprise was genuine
gave an air of obliquity to her own attitude.
She was not sure that she understood herself.

* Won't you explain ? ' he said with a tinge
of impatience.

Her eyes wandered about the familiar draw-
ing-room which had been the scene of so many
of their evening confidences. The shaded lamps,
the quiet-coloured walls hung with mezzotints,
the pale spring flowers scattered here and there
in Venice glasses and bowls of old Sevres,
recalled, she hardly knew why, the apartment

204 THE RECKONING i

in which the evenings of her first marriage had
been passed — a wilderness of rosewood and
upholstery, with a picture of a Roman peasant
above the mantelpiece, and a Greek slave in
* statuary marble ' between the folding-doors of
the back drawing-room. It was a room with
which she had never been able to establish any
closer relation than that between a traveller and
a railway station ; and now, as she looked about
at the surroundings which stood for her deepest
affinities — the room for which she had left that
other room — ^she was startled by the same sense
of strangeness and unfamiliarity. The prints, the
flowers, the subdued tones of the old porcelains,
seemed to typify a superficial refinement which
had no relation to the deeper significances of life.

Suddenly she heard her husband repeating
his question.

*I don't know that I can explain,' she
faltered.

He drew his arm-chair forward so that he
faced her across the hearth. The light of a
reading-lamp fell on his finely drawn face,
which had a kind of surface-sensitiveness akin
to the surface-refinement of its setting.

*Is it that you no longer believe in our
ideas ? ' he asked.

* In our ideas ? '

' The ideas I am trying to teach. The ideas
you and I are supposed to stand for.' He
paused a moment. ^The ideas on which our
marriage was founded.'

I THE RECKONING 205

The blood rushed to her face. He had his
reasons, then — she was sure now that he had
his reasons ! In the ten years of their marriage,
how often had either of them stopped to con-
sider the ideas on which it was founded ? How
often does a man dig about the basement of his
house to examine its foundation ? The founda-
tion is there, of course — the house rests on it —
but one lives above-stairs and not in the cellar.
It was she, indeed, who in the beginning had
insisted on reviewing the situation now and
then, on recapitulating the reasons which justi-
fied her course, on proclaiming, from time to
time, her adherence to the religion of personal
independence ; but she had long ceased to feel
the want of any such ideal standards, and had
accepted her marriage as frankly and naturally
as though it had been based on the primitive
needs of the heart, and required no special
sanction to explain or justify it.

* Of course I still believe in our ideas ! ' she
exclaimed.

* Then I repeat that I don*t understand. It
was a part of your theory that the greatest
possible publicity should be given to our view
of marriage. Have you changed your mind in
that respect ? '

She hesitated. * It depends on circumstances
—on the public one is addressing. The set of
people that the Van Siderens get about them
don*t care for the truth or falseness of a doctrine.
They are attracted simply by its novelty.*

2o6 THE RECKONING i

* And yet it was in just such a set of people
that you and I met, and learned the truth from
each other.'

* That was different/

* In what way ? '

* I was not a young girl, to begin with. It
is perfectly unfitting that young girls should be
present at — at such times — should hear such
things discussed *

* I thought you considered it one of the
deepest social wrongs that such things never
are discussed before young girls ; but that is
beside the point» for I don't remember seeing
any young girl in my audience to-day '

* Except Una Van Sideren ! *

He turned slightly and pushed back the lamp
at his elbow.

* Oh, Miss Van Sideren — naturally '

* Why naturally ? *

*The daughter of the house — would you
have had her sent out with her governess ? '

^ If I had a daughter I should not allow such
things to go on in my house ! '

Westall, stroking his mustache, leaned back
with a faint smile. ' I fancy Miss Van Sideren
is quite capable of taking care of herself.'

* No girl knows how to take care of herself —
till it's too late.'

* And yet you would deliberately deny her
the surest means of self-defence i '

* What do you call the' surest means of self-
defence ? '

I THE RECKONING 207

*Some preliminary knowledge of human
nature in its relation to the marriage tie.*

She made an impatient gesture. *How
should you like to marry that kind of a girl ? '

* Immensely — if she were my kind of girl in
other respects.*

She took up the argument at another point.

* You are quite mistaken if you think such
talk does not afFect young girls. Una was in

a state of the most al^urd exaltation ' She

broke ofF, wondering why she had spoken.

Westall reopened a magazine which he had
laid aside at the beginning of their discussion.
* What you tell me is immensely flattering to
my oratorical talent — but I fear you overrate
its effect. I can assure you that Miss Van
Sideren doesn't have to have her thinking done
for her. She's quite capable of doing it herself.'

•You seem very familiar with her mental
processes ! ' flashed unguardedly from his wife.

He looked up quietly from the pages he was
cutting.

*I should like to be,' he answered. 'She
interests me.'

If there be a distinction in being misunderstood,
it was one denied to Julia Westall when she left
her first husband. Every one was ready to
excuse and even to defend her. The world
she adorned agreed that John Arment was
* impossible/ and hostesses gave a sigh of relief
at the thought that it would no longer be
necessary to ask him to dine.

There had been no scandal connected with
the divorce : neither side had accused the
other of the ofFence euphemistically described
as * statutory.' The Arments had indeed been
obliged to transfer their allegiance to a State
which recognized desertion as a cause for
divorce, and construed the term so liberally
that the seeds of desertion were shown to exist
in every union. Even Mrs. Arment's second
marriage did not make traditional morality stir
in its sleep. It was known that she had not
met her second husband till after she had parted
from the first, and she had, moreover, replaced
a rich man by a poor one. Though Clement
Westall was acknowledged to be a rising lawyer,

208

II THE RECKONING 209

it was generally felt that his fortunes would not
rise as rapidly as his reputation. The Westalls
would probably always have to live quietly and
go out to dinner in cabs. Could there be
better evidence of Mrs. Arment's complete
disinterestedness ?

If the reasoning by which her friends justified
her course was somewhat cruder and less com-
plex than her own elucidation of the matter,
both explanations led to the same conclusion :
John Arment was impossible. The only differ-
ence was that, to his wife, his impossibility was
something deeper than a social disqualification.
She had once said, in ironical defence of her
marriage, that it had at least preserved her from
the necessity of sitting next to him at dinner ;
but she had not then realized at what cost the
immunity was purchased. John Arment was
impossible ; but the sting of his impossibility
lay in the fact that he made it impossible for^
those about him to be other than himself. By
an unconscious process of elimination he had
excluded from the world everything of which he
did not feel a personal need : had become, as it
were, a climate in which only his own requirements
survived. This might seem to imply a deliber-
ate selfishness ; but there was nothing deliberate
about Arment. He was as instinctive as an
animal or a child. It was this childish element
in his nature which sometimes for a moment
unsettled his wife's estimate of him. Was it
possible that he was simply undeveloped, that

2IO THE RECKONING ii

he had delayed, somewhat longer than is usual,
the laborious process of growing up ? He had
the kind of sporadic shrewdness which causes it
to be said of a dull man that he is * no fool * ;
and it was this quality that his wife found most
trying. Even to the naturalist it is annoying to
have his deductions disturbed by some unfore-
seen aberrancy of form or function ; and how
much more so to the wife whose estimate of
herself is inevitably bound up with her judg-
ment of her husband !

Arment's shrewdness did not, indeed, imply
: any latent intellectual power ; it suggested,
: rather, potentialities of feeling, of suffering,
perhaps, in a blind rudimentary way, on which
Julia's sensibilities naturally declined to linger.
She so fully understood her own reasons for
leaving him that she disliked to think they
were not as comprehensible to her husband.
She was haunted, in her analytic moments,
by the look of perplexity, too inarticulate for
words, with which he had acquiesced in her
explanations.

These moments were rare with her, how-
ever. Her marriage had been too concrete a
misery to be surveyed philosophically. If she
had been unhappy for complex reasons, the
unhappiness was as real as though it had been
uncomplicated. Soul is more bruisable than
flesh, and Julia was wounded in every fibre of
her spirit. Her husband's personality seemed
to be closing gradually in on her, obscuring the

II THE RECKONING 211

sky and cutting ofF the air, till she felt herself
shut up among the decaying bodies of her
starved hopes. A sense of having been de-
coyed by some world-old conspiracy into this
bondage of body and soul filled her with despair.
If marriage was the slow life-long acquittal of
a debt contracted in ignorance, then marriage
was a crime against human nature. She, for
one, would have no share in maintaining the
pretence of which she had been a victim : the
pretence that a man and a woman, forced into
the narrowest of personal relations, must remain
there till the end, though they may have out-
grown the span of each other's natures as the
mature tree outgrows the iron brace about the
sapling.

It was in the first heat of her moral indigna-
tion that she had met Clement Westall. She
had seen at once that he was ' interested,' and
had fought off the discovery, dreading any in-
fluence that should draw her back into the
bondage of conventional relations. To ward oflT
the peril she had, with an almost crude precipi-
tancy, revealed her opinions to him. To her
surprise, she found that he shared them. She
was attracted by the frankness of a suitor who,
while pressing his suit, admitted that he did not
believe in marriage. Her worst audacities did
not seem to surprise him : he had thought out
all that she had felt, and they had reached the
same conclusion. People grew at varying rates,
and the yoke that was an easy fit for the one

212 THE RECKONING ii

might soon become galling to the other. That
was what divorce was for : the readjustment of
personal relations. As soon as their necessarily
transitive nature was recognized they would
gain in dignity as well as in harmony. There
would be no further need of the ignoble conces-
sions and connivances, the perpetual sacrifice of
personal delicacy and moral pride, by means
of which imperfect marriages were now held
together. Each partner to the contract would
be on his mettle, forced to live up to the
highest standard of self-development, on pain of
losing the other's respect and affection. The
low nature could no longer drag the higher
down, but must struggle to rise, or remain
alone on its inferior level. The only necessary
condition to a harmonious marriage was a frank
recognition of this truth, and a solemn agree-
ment between the contracting parties to keep
faith with themselves, and not to live together
for a moment after complete accord had ceased
to exist between them. The new adultery was
unfaithfulness to self.

It was, as Westall had just reminded her, on
this understanding that they had married. The
ceremony was an unimportant concession to
social prejudice : now that the door of divorce
stood open, no marriage need be an imprison-
ment, and the contract therefore no longer
involved any diminution of self-respect. The
nature of their attachment placed them so far
beyond the reach of such contingencies that it

II THE RECKONING 213

was easy to discuss them with an open mind ;
and Julia's sense of security made her dwell
with a tender insistence on Westall's promise to
claim his release when he should cease to love
her. The exchange of these vows seemed to
make them, in a sense, champions of the new
law, pioneers in the forbidden realm of indi-
vidual freedom : they felt that they had some-
how achieved beatitude without martyrdom.

This, as Julia now reviewed the past, she
perceived to have been her theoretical attitude
toward marriage. It was unconsciously, insidi-
ously, that her ten years of happiness with
Westall had developed another conception of
the tie ; a reversion, rather, to the old instinct
of passionate dependency and possessorship that
now made her blood revolt at the mere hint of
change. Change ? Renewal ? Was that what
they had called it, in their foolish jargon ?
Destruction, extermination rather — this rending
of a myriad fibres interwoven with another's
being ! Another ? But he was not other !
He and she were one, one in the mystic sense
which alone gave marriage its significance. The
new law was not for them, but for the disunited
creatures forced into a mockery of union. The
gospel she had felt called on to proclaim had no
bearing on her own case. . . . She sent for the
doctor and told him she was sure she needed a
nerve tonic.

She took the nerve tonic diligently but it
failed to quiet her fears. She did not know

214 THE RECKONING ii

what she feared ; but that made her anxiety the
more pervasive. Her husband had not reverted
to the subject of his Saturday talks. He was
unusually kind and considerate, with a soften-
ing of his quick manner, a touch of shyness in
his consideration, that sickened her with new
fears. She told herself that it was because she
looked badly — because he knew about the
doctor and the nerve tonic — that he showed
this deference to her wishes, this eagerness to
screen her from moral draughts ; but the ex-
planation simply cleared the way for fresh
mferences.

The week passed slowly, vacantly, like a
prolonged Sunday. On Saturday the morning
post brought a note from Mrs. Van Sideren.
Would dear Julia ask Mr. Westall to come half
an hour earlier than usual, as there was to be
some music after his * talk ' ? Westall was just
leaving for his office when his wife read the
note. She opened the drawing-room door and
called him back to deliver the message.

He glanced at the note and tossed it aside.
* What a bore ! I shall have to cut my game
of racquets. Well, I suppose it can't be helped.
Will you write and say it's all right ? *

Julia hesitated a moment, her hand stiffening
on the chair-back against which she leaned.

* You mean to go on with these talks ? ' she
asked.

* I — why not ? ' he returned ; and this time
it struck her that his surprise was not quite

II THE RECKONING 215

unfeigned. The perception helped her to find
words.

*You said you had started them with the
idea of pleasing me *

*WeU.?'

* I told you last week that they didn't please
me.'

* Last week ? Oh — — ' He seemed to
make an effort of memory. *1 thought you
were nervous then ; you sent for the doctor
the next day.'

* It was not the doctor I needed ; it was
your assurance *

* My assurance ? '

Suddenly she felt the floor fail under her.
She sank into the chair with a choking throat,
her words, her reasons slipping away from her
like straws down a whirling flood.

* Clement,' she cried, * isn't it enough for you
to know that I hate it ? '

He turned to close the door behind them ;
then he walked toward her and sat down.
* What is it that you hate ? ' he asked gently.

She had made a desperate eflTort to rally her
routed argument.

* I can t bear to have you speak as if — as if
— our marriage — ^were like the other kind — the
wrong kind. When I heard you there, the
other afternoon, before all those inquisitive
gossiping people, proclaiming that husbands and
wives had a right to leave each other whenever
they were tired — or had seen some one els e

2i6 THE RECKONING ii

Westall sat motionless, his eyes fixed on a
pattern of the carpet.

* You have ceased to take this view, then ? '
he said as she broke ofF. *You no longer
believe that husbands and wives are justified in
separating — under such conditions ? *

* Under such conditions ? ' she stammered.
*Yes — I still believe that — but how can we
judge for others ? What can we know of the
circumstances ? '

He interrupted her. 'I thought it was a
fundamental article of our creed that the special
circumstances produced by marriage were not
to interfere with the full assertion of individual
liberty.' He paused a moment. *I thought
that was your reason for leaving Arment.*

She flushed to the forehead. It was not like
him to give a personal turn to the argument.

* It was my reason/ she said simply.

* Well, then — why do you refuse to recognize
its validity now i '

* I don't — I don't — I only say that one can't
judge for others.'

He made an impatient movement. ' This is
mere hair-splitting. What you mean is that,
the doctrine having served your purpose when
you needed it, you now repudiate it.'

' Well,' she exclaimed, flushing again, * what
if I do } What does it matter to us ? '

Westall rose from his chair. He was ex-
cessively pale, and stood before his wife with
something of the formality of a stranger.

II THE RECKONING 217

* It matters to me/ he said in a low voice,
' because I do not repudiate it.'

*Well ?'

* And because I had intended to invoke it
as '

He paused and drew his breath deeply. She
sat silent, almost deafened by her heart-beats.

* as a complete justification of the course

I am about to take.'

Julia remained motionless. *What course
is that } ' she asked.

He cleared his throat. ' I mean to claim
the fulfilment of your promise.'

For an instant the room wavered and
darkened ; then she recovered a torturing
acuteness of vision. Every detail of her sur-
roundings pressed upon her : the tick of the
clock, the slant of sunlight on the wall, the
hardness of the chair-arms that she grasped,
were a separate wound to each sense.

* My promise ' she faltered.

* Your part of our mutual agreement to set
each other free if one or the other should wish
to be released.'

She was silent again. He waited a moment,
shifting his position nervously ; then he said,
with a touch of irritability : * You acknowledge
the agreement ? *

The question went through her like a shock.
She lifted her head to it proudly. ' I acknow-
ledge the agreement,' she said.

* And — you don't mean to repudiate it } '

21 8 THE RECKONING ii

A log on the hearth fell forward^ and
mechanically he advanced and pushed it back.

* No,* she answered slowly, * I don*t mean to
repudiate it/

There was a pause. He remained near the
hearth, his elbow resting on the mantel-shelf.
Close to his hand stood a little cup of jade that
he had given her on one of their wedding
anniversaries. She wondered vaguely if he
noticed it.

* You intend to leave me, then ? ' she said at
length.

His gesture seemed to deprecate the crude-
ness of the allusion.

* To marry some one else ? '
Again his eye and hand protested. She

rose and stood before him.

* Why should you be afraid to tell me ? Is
it Una Van Sideren ? *

He was silent.

^ I wish you good luck,' she said.

Ill

She looked up, finding herself alone. She did
not remember when or how he had left the
room, or how long afterward she had sat there.
The fire still smouldered on the hearth, but the
slant of sunlight had left the wall.

Her first conscious thought was that she had
not broken her word, that she had fulfilled the
very letter of their bargain. There had been
no crying out, no vain appeal to the past, no
attempt at temporizing or evasion. She had
marched straight up to the guns.

Now that it was over, she sickened to find
herself alive. She looked about her, trying to
recover her hold on reality. Her identity
seemed to be slipping from her, as it disappears
in a physical swoon. * This is my room — this
is my house,' she heard herself saying. Her
room ? Her house ? She could almost hear
the walls laugh back at her.

She stood up, a weariness in every bone.
The silence of the room frightened her. She
remembered, now, having heard the front door

219

220 THE RECKONING m

close a long time ago : the sound suddenly
re-echoed through her brain. Her husband
must have left the house, then — her husband?
She no longer knew in what terms to think :
the simplest phrases had a poisoned edge. She
sank back into her chair, overcome by a strange
weakness. The clock struck ten — it was only
ten o*clock 1 Suddenly she remembered that
she had not ordered dinner ... or were they
dining out that evening ? Dinner — dining out —
the old meaningless phraseology pursued her !
She must try to think of herself as she would
think of some one else, a some one dissociated
from all the familiar routine of the past, whose
wants and habits must gradually be learned, as
one might spy out the ways of a strange
animal. . . .

The clock struck another hour — eleven.
She stood up again and walked to the door :'
she thought she would go upstairs to her room.
Her room ? Again the word derided her. She
opened the door, crossed the narrow hall, and
walked up the stairs. As she passed, she noticed
Westall's sticks and umbrellas : a pair of his
gloves lay on the hall table. The same stair-
carpet mounted between the same walls ; the
same old French print, in its narrow black
frame, faced her on the landing. This visual
continuity was intolerable. Within, a gaping
chasm ; without, the same untroubled and
familiar surface. She must get away from it
before she could attempt to think. But, once

Ill THE RECKONING 221

in her room, she sat down on the lounge, a
stupor creeping over her. . .

Gradually her vision cleared. A great deal
had happened in the interval — a wild marching
and countermarching of emotions, arguments,
ideas — a fury of insurgent impulses that fell
back spent upon themselves. She had tried, at
first, to rally, to organise these chaotic forces.
There must be help somewhere, if only she
could master the inner tumult. Life could not
be broken off short like this, for a whim, a
fancy ; the law itself would side with her, would
defend her. The law ? What claim had she
upon it ? She was the prisoner of her own
choice : she had been her own legislator, and
she was the predestined victim of the code she
had devised. But this was grotesque, intolerable
— a mad mistake, for which she could not be
held accountable ! The law she had despised
was still there, might still be invoked . . .
invoked, but to what end.^ Could she ask it
to chain Westall to her side ? She had been
allowed to go free when she claimed her
freedom — should she show less magnanimity
than she had exacted ? Magnanimity ? The
word lashed her with its irony — one does not
strike an attitude when one is fighting for life !
She would threaten, grovel, cajole . . . she would
yield anything to keep her hold on happiness.
Ah, but the difficulty lay deeper ! The law
could not help her — her own apostasy could not
help her. She was the victim of the theories

222 THE RECKONING in

she renounced. It was as though some giant
machine of her own making had caught her
up in its wheels and was grinding her to
atoms. • . •

It was afternoon when she found herself
out-of-doors. She walked with an aimless
haste, fearing to meet familiar faces. The day
was radiant, metallic : one of those searching
American days so calculated to reveal the short-
comings of our street-cleaning and the excesses
of our architecture. The streets looked bare
and hideous ; everything stared and glittered.
She called a passing hansom, and gave Mrs. Van
Sideren's address. She did not know what had
led up to the act ; but she found herself
suddenly resolved to speak, to cry out a warning.
It was too late to save herself — but the girl
might still be told. The hansom rattled up
Fifth Avenue ; she sat with her eyes fixed,
avoiding recognition. At the Van Siderens'
door she sprang out and rang the bell. Action
had cleared her brain, and she felt calm and self-
possessed. She knew now exactly what she
meant to say.

The ladies were both out . . . the parlour-
maid stood waiting for a card. Julia, with a
vague murmur, turned away from the door and
lingered a moment on the sidewalk. Then she
remembered that she had not paid the cab-
driver. She drew a dollar from her purse and
handed it to him. He touched his hat and
drove off, leaving her alone in the long empty

Ill THE RECKONING 223

street. She wandered away westward, toward
strange thoroughfares, where she was not likely
to meet acquaintances. The feeling of aimless-
ness had returned. Once she found herself in
the afternoon torrent of Broadway, swept past
tawdry shops and flaming theatrical posters,
with a succession of meaningless faces gliding
by in the opposite direction. . . .

A feeling of faintness reminded her that she
had not eaten since - morning. She turned into
a side street of shabby houses, with rows of
ash -barrels behind bent area railings. In a
basement window she saw the sign Ladies'
Restaurant: a pie and a dish of doughnuts lay
against the dusty pane like petrified rood in an
ethnological museum. She entered, and a
young woman with a weak mouth and a brazen
eye cleared a table for her near the window.
The table was covered with a red and white
cotton cloth and adorned with a bunch of
celery in a thick tumbler and a salt-cellar full
of grayish lumpy salt. Julia ordered tea, and
sat a long time waiting for it. She was glad to
be away from the noise and confusion of the
streets. The low-ceilinged room was empty,
and two or three waitresses with thin pert faces
lounged in the background staring at her and
whispering together. At last the tea was
brought in a discoloured metal tea pot. Julia
poured a cup full and drank it hastily. It was
black and bitter, but it flowed through her
veins like an elixir. She was almost dizzy with

224 THE RECKONING iii

exhilaration. Oh, how tired, how unutterably
tired she had been !

She drank a second cup, blacker and bitterer,
and now her mind was once more working
clearly. She felt as vigorous, as decisive, as
when she had stood on the Van Siderens' door-
step — but the wish to return there had subsided.
She saw now the futility of such an attempt —
the humiliation to which it might have exposed
her. . . . The pity of it was that she did not
know what to do next. The short winter day
was fading, and she realized that she could not
remdn much longer in the restaurant without
attracting notice. She paid for her tea and
went out into the street. The lamps were
alight, and here and there a basement shop cast
an oblong of gas-light across the fissured pave-
ment. In the dusk there was something sinister
about the aspect of the street, and she hastened
back toward Fifth Avenue. She was not used
to being out alone at that hour.

At the corner of Fifth Avenue she paused
and stood watching the stream of carriages.
At last a policeman caught sight of her and
signed to her that he would take her across.
She had not meant to cross the street, but she
obeyed automatically, and presently found her-
self on the farther corner. There she paused
again for a moment ; but she fancied the
policeman was watching her, and this sent her
hastening down the nearest side street. . . .
After that she walked a long time, vaguely. . . .

Ill THE RECKONING 225

Night had fallen, and now and then, through
the windows of a passing carriage, she caught
the expanse of an evening waistcoat or the
shimmer of an opera cloak. . . .

Suddenly she found herself in a familiar
street. She stood still a moment, breathing
quickly. She had turned the corner without
noticing whither it led ; but now, a few yards
ahead of her, she saw the house in which she
had once lived — her first husband's house.
The blinds were drawn, and only a faint trans-
lucence marked the windows and the transom
above the door. As she stood there she heard
a step behind her, and a man walked by in the
direction of the house. He walked slowly,
with a heavy middle-aged gait, his head simk a
little between the shoulders, the red crease of
his neck visible above the fur collar of his
overcoat. He crossed the street, went up the
steps of the house, drew forth a latch-key, and
let himself in. . . .

There was no one else in sight. Julia
leaned for a long time against the area-rail at the
corner, her eyes fixed on the front of the house.
The feeling of physical weariness had returned,,
but the strong tea still throbbed in her veins
and lit her brain with an unnatural clearness.
Presently she heard another step draw near, and
moving quickly away, she too crossed the street
and mounted the steps of the house. The
impulse which had carried her there prolonged
itself in a quick pressure of the electric bell —

226 THE RECKONING in

then she felt suddenly weak and tremulous, and
grasped the balustrade for support. The door
opened and a young footman with a fresh
inexperienced face stood on the threshold.
Julia knew in an instant that he would admit
her.

* I saw Mr. Arment going in just now/ she
said. *WiIl you ask him to see me for a
moment ? '

The footman hesitated. *I think Mr.
Arment has gone up to dress for dinner,
madam.*

Julia advanced into the haU. * I am sure he
will see me — I will not detain him long/ she
said. She spoke quietly, authoritatively, in the
tone which a good servant does not mistake.
The footman had his hand on the drawing-room
door.

^I ^11 tell him, madam. What name,
please ? '

Julia trembled : she had not thought of that.
' Merely say a lady,* she returned carelessly.

The footman wavered and she fancied herself
lost ; but at that instant the door opened from
within and John Arment stepped into the hall.
He drew back sharply as he saw her, his florid
face turning sallow with the shock; then the
blood poured back to it, swelling the veins on
his temples and reddening the lobes of his thick
ears.

It was long since Julia had seen him, and
she was startled at the change in his appearance.

Ill THE RECKONING 227

He had thickened, coarsened, settled down into
the enclosing flesh. But she noted this in-
sensibly : her one conscious thought was that,
now she was face to face with him, she must
not let him escape till he had heard her. Every
pulse in her body throbbed with the urgency of
her message.

She went up to him as he drew back. * I
must speak to you,' she said.

Arment hesitated, red and stammering. Julia
glanced at the footman, and her look acted as a
warning. The instinctive shrinking from a
' scene ' predominated over every other impulse,
and Arment said slowly : * Will you come this
way ? '

He followed her into the drawing-room and
closed the door. Julia, as she advanced, was
vaguely aware that the room at least was un-
changed : time had not mitigated its horrors.
The contadina still lurched from the chimney-
breast, and the Greek slave obstructed the
threshold of the inner room. The place was
alive with memories : they started out from
every fold of the yellow satin curtains and
glided between the angles of the rosewood
furniture. But while some subordinate agency
was carrying these impressions to her brain, her
whole conscious eflfbrt was centred in the act of
dominating Arment's will. The fear that he
would refuse to hear her mounted like fever to
her brain. She felt her purpose melt before it,
words and arguments running into each other

228 THE RECKONING in

in the heat of her longing. For a moment her
voice failed her, and she imagined herself thrust
out before she could speak ; but as she was
struggling for a word, Arment pushed a chair
forward, and said quietly : * You are not well.'

The sound of his voice steadied her. It was
neither kind nor unkind — a voice that sus-
pended judgment, rather, awaidng unforeseen
developments. She supported herself against
the back of the chair and drew a deep breath.

* Shall I send for something ? ' he continued,
with a cold embarrassed politeness.

Julia raised an entreating hand. ^No-^-no
— ^thank you. I am quite well.'

He paused midway toward the bell, and
turned on her. * Then may I ask ? '

*Yes,' she interrupted him. *I came here
because I wanted to see you. There is some-
thing I must tell you.'

Arment continued to scrutinize her. ' I am
surprised at that,' he said. *I should have
supposed that any communication you may
wish to make coidd have been made through
our lawyers.'

* Our lawyers ! ' She burst into a little
laugh. *I don't think they could help me —
this time.'

Arment's face took on a barricaded look. 4f
there is any question of help — of course '

It struck her, whimsically, that she had seen
that look when some shabby devil called with
a subscription-book. Perhaps he thought she

Ill THE RECKONING 229

wanted him to put his name down for so much
in sympathy — or even in money. . . . The
thought made her laugh again. She saw his
look change slowly to perplexity. All his facial
changes were slow, and she remembered, sud-
denly, how it had once diverted her to shift
that lumbering scenery with a word. For the
first time it struck her that she had been cruel.
* There is a question of help,' she said in a softer
key ; * you can help me ; but only by listening.
... I want to tell you something. . . .'

Arment's resistance was not yielding. * Would
it not be easier to— write ? ' he suggested.

She shook her head. * There is no time to
write . . . and it won't take long.' She raised
her head and their eyes met. * My husband has
left me,' she said.

* Westall ? ' he stammered, reddening

again.

*Yes. This morning. Just as I left you.
Because he was tired of me.'

The words, uttered scarcely above a whisper,
seemed to dilate to the limit of the room.
Arment looked toward the door ; then his
embarrassed glance returned to Julia.

* I am very sorry,* he said awkwardly.

* Thank you,' she murmured.

* But I don't see '

* No — ^but you will — in a moment. Won't
you listen to me ? Please ! ' Instinctively she
had shifted her position, putting herself between
him and the door. * It happened this morning,'

230 THE RECKONING iii

she went on in short breathless phrases. *I
never suspected anything — ^I thought we were
— ^perfectly happy. . . . Suddenly he told me
he was tired of me . . . there is a girl he likes
better. . . . He has gone to her. . . .' As she
spoke, the lurking anguish rose upon her, pos-
sessing her once more to the exclusion of every
other emotion. Her eyes ached, her throat
swelled with it, and two painful tears ran down
her face.

Arment*s constraint was increasing visibly.
*This — this is very imfortunate,' he began.

* But I should say the law *

*The law?' she echoed ironically. *When
he asks for his freedom ? '

* You are not obliged to give it.'

* You were not obliged to give me mine —
but you did.*

He made a protesting gesture.

* You saw that the law couldn't help you —
didn't you ? ' she went on. * That is what I
see now. The law represents material rights —
it can't go beyond. If we don't recognize an
inner law ... the obligation that love creates
. . . being loved as well as loving . . . there
is nothing to prevent our spreading ruin un-
hindered ... is there ? ' She raised her head
plaintively, with the look of a bewildered child.

* That is what I see now . . . what I wanted to
tell you. He leaves me because he's tired . . .
but / was not tired ; and I don't understand
why he is. That's the dreadful part of it — ^the

Ill THE RECKONING 231

not understanding : I hadn't realized what it
meant. But I've been thinking of it all day,
and things have come back to me — things I
hadn't noticed . . . when you and I . . .' She
moved closer to him, and fixed her eyes on his
with the gaze which tries to reach beyond words.
* I see now that you didn't understand — did
you ? '

Their eyes met in a sudden shock of com-
prehension : a veil seemed to be lifted between
them. Arment's lip trembled.

^ No,' he said, * I didn't understand.'

She gave a little cry, almost of triumph. * I
knew it! I knew it! You wondered — you
tried to tell me — but no words came. . . . You
saw your life falling in ruins . . . the world
slipping from you . . . and you couldn't speak
or move I '

She sank down on the chair against which
she had been leaning. ' Now I know — now I
know,' she repeated.

* I am very sorry for you,' she heard Arment
stammer.

She looked up quickly. ' That's not what I
came for. I don't want you to be sorry. I
came to ask you to forgive me . . . for not
understanding that you didn't understand. . . .
That's all I wanted to say.' She rose with a
vague sense that the end had come, and put out
a groping hand toward the door.

Arment stood motionless. She turned to
him with a faint smile.

232 THE RECKONING iii

* You forgive me ? *

* There is nothing to forgive-

* Then will you shake hands for good-bye ? '
She felt his hand in hers : it was nerveless,
reluctant.

^Good-bye,' she repeated. *I understand
now.'

She opened the door and passed out into the
hall. As she did so, Arment took an impulsive
step forward ; but just then the footman, who
was evidently alive to his obligations, advanced
from the background to let her out. She heard
Arment fall back. The footman threw open
the door, and she found herself outside in the
darkness.

THE LETTER

233

Colonel Alingdon died in Florence in 1890.

For many years he had lived withdrawn
from the world in which he had once played so
active and even turbulent a part. The study
of Tuscan art was his only pursuit, and it was
to help him in the classification of his notes and
documents that I was first called to his villa.
Colonel Alingdon had then the look of a very
old man, though his age can hardly have ex-
ceeded seventy. He was small and bent, with
a finely wrinkled face which still wore the tan
of youthful exposure. But for this dusky red-
ness it would have been hard to reconstruct
from the shrunken recluse, with his low fas-
tidious voice and carefully tended hands, an
image of that young knight of adventure whose
sword had been at the service of every uprising
which stirred the uneasy soil of Italy in the first
half of the nineteenth century.

Though I was more of a proficient in Colonel
Alingdon*s later than his earlier pursuits, the
thought of his soldiering days was always com-
ing between me and the pacific work of his old

ass

236 THE LETTER i

age. As we sat collatinc; papers and comparing
photographs, I had the reeling that this dry and
quiet old man had seen even stranger things
than people said : that he knew more of the
inner history of Europe than half the diploma-
tists of his day.

I was not alone in this conviction ; and the
friend who had engaged me for Colonel Aling-
don had appended to his instructions the in-
junction to 'get him to talk/ But this was
what no one could do. Colonel Alingdon was
ready to discuss by the hour the date of a
Giottesque triptvch, or the attribution of a dis-
puted master ; but on the history of his early
life he was habitually silent.

It was perhaps because I recognized this
silence and respected it that it afterward came
to be broken for me. Or it was perhaps merely
because, as the failure of Colonel Alingdon's
sight cut him off from his work, he felt the
natural inclination of age to revert from the
empty present to the crowded past. For one
cause or another he did talk to me in the last
year of his life ; and I felt myself mingled, to
an extent inconceivable to the mere reader of
history, with the passionate scenes of the Italian
struggle for liberty. Colonel Alingdon had
been mixed with it in all its phases : he had
known the last Carbonari and the Young Italy
of Mazzini ; he had been in Perugia when the
mercenaries of a liberal Pope slaughtered women
and children in the streets ; he had been in

I THE LETTER 237

Sicily with the Thousand, and in Milan during
the Cinque Giomate.

* They say the Italians didn't know how to
fight,' he said one day, musingly — * that the
French had to come down and do their work
for them. People forget how long it was since
they had had any fighting to do. But they
hadn't forgotten how to suffer and hold their
tongues ; how to die and take their secrets with
them. The Italian war of independence was
really carried on underground : it was one of
those awful silent struggles which are so much
more terrible than the roar of a battle. It's a
deuced sight easier to charge with your regiment
than to lie rotting in an Austrian prison and
know that if you give up the name of a friend
or two you can go back scot-free to your wife
and children. And thousands and thousands of
Italians had the choice given them — and hardly
one went back.'

He sat silent, his meditative finger-tips laid
together, his eyes fixed on the past which was
now the only thing clearly visible to them.

* And the women } ' I said. * Were they as
brave as the men ? '

I had not spoken quite at random. I had
always heard that there had been as much of
love as of war in Colonel Alingdon's early
career, and I hoped that my question might
give a personal turn to his reminiscences.

* The women ? ' he repeated. * They were
braver — for they had more to bear and less to

238 THE LETTER i

do. Italy could never have been saved without
them/

His eye had kindled and I detected in it the
reflection of some vivid memory. It was then
that I asked him what was the bravest thing he
had ever known of a woman's doing.

The question was such a vague one that I
hardly knew why I had put it, but to my sur-
prise he answered almost at once, as though I
had touched on a subject of frequent meditation.

*The bravest thing I ever saw done by a
woman/ he said, * was brought about by an act
of my own — and one of which I am not parti-
cularly proud. For that reason I have never
spoken of it before. There was a time when I
didn't even care to think of it — ^but all that is
past now. She died years ago, and so did the
Jack Alingdon she knew, and in telling you the
story I am no more than the mouthpiece of an
old tradition which some ancestor might have
handed down to me.'

He leaned back, his dear blind gaze fixed
smilingly on me, and I had the feeling that, in
groping through the labyrinth of his young
adventures, I had come unawares upon their
central point.

(colonel alingdon's story)

When I was in Milan in 'forty-seven an un-
lucky thing happened to me.

I had been sent there to look over the ground
by some of my Italian friends in England. As
an English officer I had no difficulty in getting
into Milanese society, for England had for
years been the refuge of the Italian fugitives,
and I was known to be working in their in-
terests. It was just the kind of job I liked,
and I never enjoyed life more than I did in
those days. There was a great deal going on
— good music, balls and theatres. Milan kept
up her gaiety to the last. The English were
shocked by the insouciance of a race who could
dance under the very nose of the usurper ; but
those who understood the situation knew that
Milan was playing Brutus, and playing it un-
commonly well.

I was in the thick of it all — it was just the
atmosphere to suit a young fellow of nine-and-
twenty, with a healthy pas^pn for waltzing and

239

240 THE LETTER ii

fighting. But, as I said, an unlucky thing
happened to me. I was fool enough to fall in
love with Donna Candida Falco. You have
heard of her, of course : you know the share
she had in the great work. In a different way
she was what the terrible Princess Belgioioso
had been to an earlier generation. But Donna
Candida was not terril^e. She was quiet, dis-
creet and charming. When I knew her she
was a widow of thirty, her husband, Andrea
Falco, having died ten years previously, soon
after their marriage. The marriage had been
notoriously unhappy, and his death was a release
to Donna Candick. Her family were of
Modena, but they had come to live in Milan
soon after the execution of Ciro Menotti and
his companions. You remember the details of
that business f The Duke of Modena, one of
the most adroit villains in Europe, had been
bitten with the hope of uniting the Italian states
under his rule. It was a vision of Italian libera-
tion — of a sort. A few madmen were dazzled
by it, and Ciro Menotti was one of them. You
know the end. The Duke of Modena, who
had counted on Louis Philippe's backing, found
that that astute sovereign had betrayed him to
Austria. Instantly, he saw that his first business
was to get rid of the conspirators he had created.
There was nothing easier than for a Hapsburg
Este to turn on a friend. Ciro Menotti had
staked his life for the Duke — and the Duke
took it. You may remember that,^ on the night

II THE LETTER 241

when seven hundred men and a cannon attacked
Menotti's house, the Duke was seen looking
on at the slaughter from an arcade across the
square.

Well, among the lesser fry taken that night
was a lad of eighteen, Emilio Verna, who was
the only brother of Donna Candida. The
Verna family was one of the most respected in
Modena. It consisted, at that time, of the
mother. Countess Verna, of young Emilio and
his sister. Count Verna had been in Spielberg
in the twenties. He never recovered from
his sufferings there, and died in exile, without
seeing his wife and children again. Countess
Verna had been an ardent patriot in her youth,
but the failure of the first attempts against
Austria had discouraged her. She thought that
in losing her husband she had sacrificed enough
for her country, and her one idea was to keep
Emilio on good terms with the government.
But the Verna blood was not tractable, and his
father's death was not likely to make Emilio a
good subject of the Estes. Not that he had as
yet taken any active share in the work of the
conspirators : he simply hadn't had time. At
his trial there was nothing to show that he had
been in Menotti's confidence ; but he had been
seen once or twice coming out of what the ducal
police called * suspicious ' houses, and in his
desk were found some verses to Italy. That
was enough to hang a man in Modena, and
Emilio Verna was hanged.

242 THE LETTER ii

The Countess never recovered from the
blow. The circumstances of her son's death
were too abominable, too imendurable. If he
had risked his life in the conspiracy, she might
have been reconciled to his losing it. But he
was a mere child, who had sat at home, chafing
but powerless, while his seniors plotted and
fought. He had been sacrificed to the Duke's
insane fear, to his savage greed for victims, and
the Coimtess Verna was not to be consoled.

As soon as possible, the mother and daughter
left Modena for Milan. There they lived in
seclusion till Candida's marriage. During her
girlhood she had had to accept her mother's
view of life : to shut herself up in the tomb
in which the poor woman brooded over her
martyrs. But that was not the girl's way of
honouring the dead. At the moment when the
first shot was fired on Menotti's house she had
been reading Petrarch's Ode to the Lords of
Italy, and the lines

Pantico valor
Ni PitaUci cor non e ancor morto

had lodged like a bullet in her brain. From
the day of her marriage she began to take a
share in the silent work which was going on
throughout Italy. Milan was at that time the
centre of the movement, and Candida Falco
threw herself into it with all the passion which
her unhappy marriage left unsatisfied. At first
she had to act with great reserve, for her husband

II THE LETTER 243

was a prudent man, who did not cai*e to have
his habits disturbed by political complications ;
but after his death there was nothing to restrain
her, except the exquisite tact which enabled her
to work night and day in the Italian cause with-
out giving the Austrian authorities a pretext for
interference.

When I first knew Donna Candida, her
mother was still living : a tragic woman, pre-
maturely bowed, like an image of death in the
background of the daughter's brilliant life.
The Countess, since her son's death, had be-
come a patriot again, though in a narrower
sense than Candida. The mother's first thought
was that her dead must be avenged, the daughter's
that Italy must be saved ; but from different
motives they worked for the same end. Candida
felt for the Countess that protecting tenderness
with which Italian children so often regard their
parents, a feeling heightened by the reverence
which the mother's sufferings inspired. Countess
Verna, as the wife and mother of martyrs, had
done what Candida longed to do : she had given
her utmost to Italy. There must have been
moments when the self-absorption of her grief
chilled her daughter's ardent spirit ; but Candida
revered in her mother the image of their afflicted
country.

*It was too terrible,' she said, speaking of
what the Countess had suffered after Emilio's
death. *A11 the circumstances were too un-
merciful. It seemed as if God had turned His

244 THE LETTER ii

face from my mother ; as if she had been
singled out to suffer more than any of the
others. All the other families received some
message or token of farewell from the prisoners.
One of them bribed the gaoler to carry a letter
— another sent a lock of hair by the chaplain.
But Emilio made no sign, sent no word. My
mother felt as though he had turned his back
on us. She used to sit for hours, saying again
and again, " Why was he the only one to forget
his mother ? " I tried to comfort her, but it
was useless : she had suffered too much. Now
I never reason with her ; I listen, and let her
ease her poor heart. Do you know, she still
asks me sometimes if I think he may have left
a letter — if there is no way of finding out if he
left one ? She forgets that I have tried again
and again : that I have sent bribes and messages
to the gaoler, the chaplain, to every one who
came near him. The answer is always the same
— no one has ever heard of a letter. I suppose
the poor boy was stunned, and did not think
of writing. Who knows what was passing
through his poor bewildered brain ? But it
would have been a great help to my mother to
have a word from him. If I had known how to
imitate his writing I should have forged a letter.'
I knew enough of the Italians to understand
how her boy*s silence must have aggravated the
Countess's grief. Precious as a message from a
dying son would be to any mother, such signs
of tenderness have to the Italians a peculiar

II THE LETTER 245

significance. The Latin race is rhetorical : it .
possesses the gift of death-bed eloquence, the {
knack of saying the effective thing on momen- 1
tous occasions. The letters which the Italian^
patriots sent home from their prisons or from
the scaffold are not the halting farewells that
anguish would have wrung from a less expres-
sive race : they are veritable * compositions/
saved from affectation only by the fact that
fluency and sonority are a part of the Latin
inheritance. Such letters, passed from hand to
hand among the bereaved families, were not
only a comfort to the survivors but an incentive
to fresh sacrifices. They were the * seed of the
martyrs ' with which Italy was being sown ; and
I knew what it meant to the Countess Verna
to have no such treasure in her bosom, to sit
silent while other mothers quoted their sons'
last words.

I said just now that it was an unlucky day
for me when I fell in love with Donna Candida ;
and no doubt you have guessed the reason.
She was in love with some one else. It was the
old situation of Heine's song. That other loved
another — loved Italy, and with an undivided
passion. His name was Fernando Briga, and at
that time he was one of the foremost liberals
in Italy. He came of a middle-class Modenese
family. His father was a doctor, a prudent
man, engrossed in his profession and unwilling
to compromise it by meddling in politics. His
irreproachable attitude won the confidence of

246 THE LETTER ii

the government, and the Duke conferred on
him the sinister office of physician to the prisons
of Modena. It was this Briga who attended
Emilio Falco, and several of the other prisoners
who were executed at the same time.

Under shelter of his father's loyalty young
Fernando conspired in safety. He was study-
ing medicine, and every one supposed him to be
absorbed in his work ; but as a matter of fact
he was fast ripening into one of Mazzini's ablest
lieutenants. His career belongs to history, so
I need not enlarge on it here. In 1 847 he was
in Milan, and had become one of the leading
figures in the liberal group which was working
for a coalition with Piedmont. Like all the
ablest men of his day, he had cast off Mazziniism
and pinned his faith to the house of Savoy.
The Austrian government had an eye on him,
but he had inherited his father's prudence,
though he used it for nobler ends, and his dis-
cretion enabled him to do far more for the
cause than a dozen enthusiasts could have
accomplished. No one imderstood this better
than Donna Candida. She had a share of his
caution, and he trusted her with secrets which
he would not have confided to many men. Her
drawing-room was the centre of the Piedmon-
tese party, yet so clever was she in averting
suspicion that more than one hunted conspirator
hid in her house, and was helped across the Alps
by her agents.

Briga relied on her as he did on no one else ;

II THE LETTER 247

but he did not love her, and she knew it. Still,
she was young, she was handsome, and he loved
no one else : how could she give up hoping ?
From her intimate friends she made no secret
of her feelings : Italian women are not reticent
in such matters, and Donna Candida was proud
of loving a hero. You will see at once that
I had no chance ; but if she could not give up
hope, neither could I. Perhaps in her desire to
secure my services for the cause she may have
shown herself overkind : or perhaps I was still
young enough to set down to my own charms
a success due to quite difierent causes. At any
rate, I persuaded myself that if I could manage
to do something conspicuous for Italy I might
yet make her care for me. With such an
incentive you will not wonder that I worked
hard ; but though Donna Candida was full of
gratitude she continued to adore my rival.

One day we had a hot scene. I began, I
believe, by reproaching her with having led me
on ; and when she defended ' herself, I retaliated
by taunting her with Briga^s indifference. She
grew pale at that, and said it was enough to
love a hero, even without hope of return ; and
as she said it she herself looked so heroic, so
radiant, so unattainably the woman I wanted,
that a sneer may have escaped me : — ^was she so
sure then that Briga was a hero ? I remember
her proud silence and our wretched parting. I
went away feeling that at last I had really lost her ;
and the thought made me savage and vindictive.

248 THE LETTER ii

Soon after, as it happened, came the Five
DaySy and Milan was free. I caught a distant
glimpse of Donna Candida in the hospital to
which I was carried after the fight ; but my
wound was a slight one and in twenty -four
hours I was about again on crutches. I hoped
she might send for me, but she did not, and I
was too sulky to make the first advance. A
day or two later I heard there had been a
commotion in Modena, and not being in fight-
ing trim I got leave to go over there with one
or two men whom the Modenese liberals had
called in to help them. When we arrived the
precious Duke had been swept out and a pro-
visional government set up. One of my com-
panions, who was a Modenese, was made a
member, and knowing that I wanted something
to do, he commissioned me to look up some
papers in the ducal archives. It was fascinating
work, for in the pursuit of my documents I
uncovered the hidden springs of his late High-
nesses paternal administration. The principal
papers relative to the civil and criminal ad-
ministration of Modena have since been pub-
lished, and the world knows how that estimable
sovereign cared for the material and spiritual
welfare of his subjects.

Well — in the course of my search, I came
across a file of old papers marked : * Taken
from political prisoners, a.d. 1831.* It was
the year of Menotti's conspiracy, and every-
thing connected with that date was thrilling.

II THE LETTER 249

I loosened the band and ran over the letters.
Suddenly I came across one which was docketed :
* Given by Doctor Briga's son to the warder of
His Highness's prisons.' Doctor Brigas son ?
That could be no other than Fernando : I knew
he was an only child. But how came such a
paper into his hands, and how had it passed
from them into those of the Duke's warder?
My own hands shook as I opened the letter —
I felt the man suddenly in my power.

Then I began to read. * My adored mother,
even in this lowest circle of hell all hearts are
not closed to pity, and I have been given the
hope that these last words of farewell may reach
you. . . .' My eyes ran on over pages of
plaintive rhetoric. * Embrace for me my adored
Candida ... let her never forget the cause for
which her father and brother perished ... let
her keep alive in her breast the thought of
Spielberg and Reggio. Do not grieve that I
die so young . . . though not with those heroes
in deed I was with them in spirit, and am
worthy to be enrolled in the sacred phalanx
. . .' and so on. Before I reached the signa-
ture I knew the letter was from Emilio Verna.

I put it in my pocket, finished my work and
started immediately for Milan. I didn't quite
know what I meant to do — my head was in a
whirl. I saw at once what must have happened.
Fernando Briga, then a lad of fifteen or sixteen,
had attended his father in prison during Emilio
Verna's last hours, and the latter, perhaps aware

250 THE LETTER ii

of the lad*s liberal sympathies, had found an
opportunity of giving him the letter. But why
had Briga given it up to the warder? That
was the puzzling question. The docket said :
* Given by Doctor Briga's son ' — but it might
mean * taken from.' Fernando might have
been seen to receive the letter and might have
been searched on leaving the prison. But that
would not account for his silence afterward.
How was it that, if he knew of the letter, he
had never told Emilio's family of it ? There
was only one explanation. If the letter had
been taken from him by force he would have
had no reason for conceding its existence ; and
his silence was clear proof that he had given it
up voluntarily, no doubt in the hope of standing
well with the authorities. But then he was a
traitor and a coward ; the patriot of 'forty-eight
had begun life as an informer 1 But does
innate character ever change so radically that
the lad who has committed a base act at fifteen
may grow up into an honourable man ? A
good man may be corrupted by life, but can
the years turn a born sneak into a hero ?

You may fancy how I answered my own
questions* ... If Briga had been false and
cowardly then, was he not sure to be false and
cowardly still .^ In those days there were
traitors under every coat, and more than one
brave fellow had been sold to the police by his
best friend. . . . You will say that Briga's
record was unblemished, that he had exposed

II THE LETTER 251

himself to danger too frequently, had stood by
his friends too steadfastly, to permit of a rational
doubt of his good faith. So reason might have
told me in a calmer moment, but she was not
allowed to make herself heard just then. I was
young, I was angry, I chose to think I had
been unfairly treated, and perhaps at my rival's
instigation. It was not unlikely that Briga
knew of my love for Donna Candida, and had
encouraged her to use it in the good cause.
Was she not always at his bidding ? My blood
boiled at the thought, and reaching Milan in a
rage I went straight to Donna Candida.

I had measured the exact force of the blow I
was going to deal. The triumph of the liberals
in Modena had revived public interest in the
unsuccessful struggle of their predecessors, the
men who, sixteen years earlier, had paid for the
same attempt with their lives. The victors of
'forty-eight wished to honour the vanquished of
'thirty-two. All the families exiled by the
ducal government were hastening back to re-
cover possession of their confiscated property
and of the graves of their dead. Already it
had been decided to raise a monument to
Menotti and his companions. There were to
be speeches, garlands, a public holiday : the
thrill of the commemoration would run through
Europe. You see what it would have meant to
the poor Countess to appear on the scene with
her boy's letter in her hand ; and you see also
what the memorandum on the back of the letter

252 THE LETTER n

would have meant to Donna Guidida. Poor
EmIlio*8 farewell would be published in all the
journals of Europe : the finding of the letter
would be on every one's lips. And how con-
ceal those fatal words on the back? At the
moment, it seemed to me that fortune could
not have given me a handsomer chance of
destroying my rival than in letting me find the
letter which he stood convicted of having
suppressed.

My sentiment was perhaps not a strictly
honourable one ; yet what could I do but give
the letter to Donna Candida? To keep it
back was out of the question ; and with
the best will in the world I could not have
erased Briga*s name from the back. The
mistake I made was in thinking it lucky that
the paper had fallen into my hands.

Donna Candida was alone when I entered.
We had parted in anger, but she held out her
hand with a smile of pardon, and asked what
news I brought from Modena. The smile
exasperated me : I felt as though she were
trying to get me into her power again.

* I bring you a letter from your brother,' I
said, and handed it to her. I had purposely
turned the superscription downward, so that
she should not see it.

She uttered an incredulous cry and tore the
letter open. A light struck up from it into
her face as she read — a radiance that smote me
to the soul. For a moment I longed to snatch

II THE LETTER 253

the paper from her and efFace the name on the
back. It hurt me to think how short-lived her
happiness must be.

Then she did a fatal thing. She came up to
me, caught my two hands and kissed them.

* Oh, thank you — bless you a thousand times !
He died thinking of us — ^he died loving Italy ! *

I put her from me gently : it was not the
kiss I wanted, and the touch of her lips
hardened me.

She shone on me through her happy tears.
*What happiness — ^what consolation you have
brought my poor mother ! This will take the
bitterness from her grief. And that it should
come to her now ! Do you know, she had a
presentiment of it ? When we heard of the
Duke*s flight her first word was : " Now we
may find Emilio's letter." At heart she was
always sure that he had written — I suppose
some blessed instinct told her so.' She dropped
her face on her hands, and I saw her tears fall
on the wretched letter.

In a moment she looked up again, with eyes
that blessed and trusted me. * Tell me where
you found it,' she said.

I told her.

* Oh, the savages : They took it from
him '

My opportunity had come. * No,' I said,

* it appears they did not take it from him.*

* Then how '

I waited a moment. * The letter,' I said,

254 THE LETTER ii

looking full at her, ^ was given up to the warder
of the prison by the son of Doctor Briga.*

She stared, repeating the words slowly.
* The son of Doctor Briga ? But that is —
Fernando,' she said.

^ I have always understood,' I replied, ^ that
your friend was an only son.'

I had expected an outcry of horror ; if she
had uttered it I could have forgiven her any-
thing. But I heard, instead, an incredulous
exclamation : my statement was really too pre-
posterous! I saw that her mind had flashed
back to our last talk, and that she charged
me with something too nearly true to be en-
durable.

* My brother's letter ? Given to the prison
warder by Fernando Briga ? My dear Captain
Alingdon — on what authority do you expect me
to believe such a tale ? '

Her incredulity had in it an evident implica-
tion of bad faith, and I was stung to a quick
reply.

* If you will turn over the letter you will

She continued to gaze at me a moment ; then
she obeyed. I don't think I ever admired her
more than I did then. As she read the name a
tremor crossed her face ; and that was all. Her
mind must have reached out instantly to the
farthest consequences of the discovery, but the
long habit or self-command enabled her to
steady her muscles at once. If I had not been

II THE LETTER 255

on the alert I should have seen no hint of
emotion.

For a while she looked fixedly at the back of
the letter ; then she raised her eyes to mine.

* Can you tell me who wrote this ? ' she
asked.

Her composure irritated me. She had rallied
all her forces to Briga's defence, and I felt as
though my triumph were slipping from me.

* Probably one of the clerks of the archives,*
I answered. * It is written in the same hand as
all the other memoranda relating to the political
prisoners of that year.'

* But it is a lie ! ' she exclaimed. * He was
never admitted to the prisons.'

* Are you sure ? '

* How should he have been ? '

* He might have gone as his father's assistant.'

* But if he had seen my poor brother he
would have told me long ago.'

* Not if he had really given up this letter,' I
retorted.

I supposed her quick intelligence had seized
this from the first ; but I saw now that it came
to her as a shock. She stood motionless, clench*
ing the letter in her hands, and I could guess
the rapid travel of her thoughts.

Suddenly she came up to me. * Captain
Alingdon,' she said, * you have been a good
friend of mine, though I think you have not
liked me lately. But whether you like me or
not, I know you will not deceive me. On your

256 THE LETTER 11

honour, do you think this memorandum may
have been written later than the letter ? '

I hesitated. If she had cried out once against
Briga I should have wished myself out of the
business ; but she was too sure of him. ^

* On my honour,' I said, ^ I think it hardly
possible. The ink has faded to the same
degree.*

She made a rapid comparison and folded the
letter with a gesture of assent.

* It may have been written by an enemy,* I
went on, wishing to clear myself of any appear-
ance of malice.

She shook her head. ^ He was barely fifteen
— ^and his father was on the side of the govern-
ment. Besides, this would have served him
with the government, and the liberals would
never have known of it.*

This was unanswerable — ^and still not a word
of revolt against the man whose condemnation
she was pronouncing !

* Then * I said with a vague gesture.

She caught me up. * Then ? '

* You have answered my objections,* I re-
turned.

* Your objections ? *

* To thinking that Signor Briga could have
begun his career as a patriot by betraying a
friend.'

I had brought her to the test at last, but my
eyes shrank from her face as I spoke. There
was a dead silence, which I broke by adding

II THE LETTER 257

lamely : * But no doubt Signor Briga could
explain.'

She lifted her head, and I saw that my
triumph was to be short. She stood erect, a few
paces from me, resting her hand on a table, but
not for support.

* Of course he can explain,' she said ; * do
you suppose I ever doubted it ? But ' — ^she
paused a moment, fronting me nobly — * he need
not, for I understand it all now.'

* Ah,' I murmured with a last flicker of irony.
^ I understand,' she repeated. It was she,

now, who sought my eyes and held them. * It
is quite simple — he could not have done other-
wise.*

This was a little too oracular to be received
with equanimity. I suppose I smiled.

* He could not have done otherwise,' she
repeated with tranquil emphasis. * He merely
did what is every Italian's duty — he put Italy
before himself and his friends.' She waited a
moment, and then went on with growing passion :
* Surely you must see what I mean ? He was
evidently in the prison with his father at the
time of my poor brother's death. Emilio per-
haps guessed that he was a friend— or perhaps
appealed to him because he was young and
looked kind. But don't you see how dangerous
it would have been for Briga to bring this letter
to us, or even to hide it in his father's house ?
It is true that he was not yet suspected of
liberalism, but he was already connected with

2s8 THE LETTER ii

Young Italy, and it is just because he managed
to keep himself so free of suspicion that he was
able to do such good work for the cause.' She
paused, and then went on with a firmer voice.
* You don't know the danger we all lived in.
The government spies were everywhere. The
laws were set aside as the Duke pleased — ^was
not Emilio hanged for having an ode to Italy in
his desk ? After Menotti's conspiracy the Duke
grew mad with fear — he was haunted by the
dread of assassination. The police, to prove
their zeal, had to trump up false charges and
arrest innocent persons — you remember the case
of poor Ricci ? Incriminating papers were
smuggled into people's houses — ^they were con-
demned to death on the paid evidence of brigands
and galley-slaves. The families of the revolu-
tionists were under the closest observation and
were shunned by all who wished to stand well
with the government. If Briga had been seen
going into our house he womd at once have
been suspected. If he had hidden Emilio's
letter at home, its discovery might have ruined
his family as well as himself. It was his duty
to consider all these things. In those days no
man could serve two masters, and he had to
choose between endangering the cause and fail-
ing to serve a friend. Hg chose the latter —
and he was right.'

I stood listening, fascinated by the rapidity
and skill with which she had built up the
hypothesis of Briga's defence. But before she

II THE LETTER 259

ended a strange thing happened — ^her argument
had convinced me. It seemed to me quite
likely that Briga had in fact been actuated by
the motives she suggested.

I suppose she read the admission in my face,
for hers lit up victoriously.

* You see ? * she exclaimed. * Ah, it takes
one brave man to understand another.'

Perhaps I winced a little at being thus coupled
with her hero ; at any rate, some last impulse
of resistance made me say : ^ I should be quite
convinced, if Briga had only spoken of the
letter afterward. If brave people understand
each other, I cannot see why he should have
been afraid of telling you the truth.*

She coloured deeply, and perhaps not quite
resentfully.

* You are right,' she said ; * he need not have
been afraid. But he does not know me as I
know him. I was useful to Italy, and he may
have feared to risk my friendship.'

* You are the most generous woman I ever
knew ! ' I exclaimed.

She looked at me intently. ^ You also are
generous,' she said.

I stiflened instantly, suspecting a purpose
behind her praise. * I have given you small
proof of it ! ' I said.

She seemed surprised. ^ In bringing me this
letter ? What else could you do ? ' She sighed
deeply. * You can give me proof enough now.'

ohe had dropped into a ch^ir, and I saw that

26o THE LETTER ii

we had reached the most difficult point in our
interview.

^ Captun Alingdon,' she said, * does any one
else know of this letter ? '

*No. I was alone in the archives when I
found it/

' And you spoke of it to no one ? '

* To no one/

* Then no one must know/

I bowed. • It is for you to decide.*

She paused. *Not even my mother,' she
continued, with a psunfiil blush.

I looked at her in amazement. * Not
even ? *

She shook her head sadly. ^ You think me
a cruel daughter ? Well — he was a cruel friend.
What he did was done for Italy : shall I allow
myself to be surpassed ? '

I felt a pang of commiseration for the mother.
* But you will at least tell the Countess '

Her eyes filled with tears. * My poor mother
— don't make it more difficult for me ! '

* But I don't understand '

^ Don't you see that she might find it im-
possible to forgive him } She has suffered so
much ! And I can't risk that — for in her anger
she might speak. And even if she forgave him,
she might be tempted to show the letter. Don't
you see that, even now, a word of this might
ruin him ^ I will trust his fate to no one. If
Italy needed him then she needs him far more
to-day.'

II THE LETTER * 261

She stood before me magnificently, in the
splendour of her great refusal ; then she turned
to the writing-table at which she had been
seated when I came in. Her sealing-taper was
still alight, and she held her brother's letter to
the flame.

I watched her in silence while it burned ; but
one more question rose to my lips.

* You will tell himy then, what you have done
for him ? * I cried.

And at that the heroine turned woman,
melted, and pressed unhappy hands in mine.

* Don't you see that I can never tell hiiti
what I do for him } That is my gift to Italy,'
she ssud.

THE DILETTANTE

263

THE DILETTANTE

It was on an impulse hardly needing the argu-
ments he found himself advancing in its favour,
that Thursdale, on his way to the club, turned
as usual into Mrs. Vervain's street.

The ^ as usual ' was his own qualification of

^ the act ; a convenient way of bridging the

interval — in days and other sequences — that lay
between this visit and the last. It was
characteristic of him that he instinctively ex-
cluded his call two days earlier, with Ruth
Gaynor, from the list of his visits to Mrs.
Vervain : the special conditions attending it had
made it no more like a visit to Mrs. Vervain

I than an engraved dinner invitation is like a

personal letter. Yet it was to talk over his call
with Miss Gaynor that he was now returning to

^ the scene of that episode ; and it was because

Mrs. Vervain could be trusted to handle the
talking over as skilfully as the interview itself
that, at her corner, he had felt the dilettante's
irresistible craving to take a last look at a work
of art that was passing out of his possession.
On the whole, he knew no one better fitted

265

266 THE DILETTANTE

to deal with the unexpected than Mrs. Vervsun.
She excelled in the rare art of taking things for
granted, and Thursdale felt a pardonable pride
in the thought that she owed her excellence to
his training. Early in his career Thursdale had
made the mistake, at the outset of his acquaint-
ance with a lady, of telling her that he loved her
and exacting the same avowal in return. The
latter part of that episode had been like the
long walk back from a picnic, when one has to
carry all the crockery one has finished using :
it was the last time Thursdale ever allowed
himself to be encumbered with the debris of a
feast. He thus incidentally learned that the
privilege of loving her is one of the least favours
that a charming woman can accord ; and in
seeking to avoid the pitfalls of sentiment he
had developed a science of evasion in which
the woman of the moment became a mere
implement of the game. He owed a great
deal of delicate enjoyment to the cultivation of
this art. The penis from which it had been his
refuge became naively harmless : was it possible
that he who now took his easy way along the
levels had once preferred to gasp on the raw
heights of emotion ? Youth is a high-coloured
season ; but he had the satisfaction of feeling
that he had entered earlier than most into that
chiaroscuro of sensation where every half-tone
has its value.

As a promoter of this pleasure no one he had
known was comparable to Mrs. Vervain. He had

THE DILETTANTE 267

taught a good many women not to betray their
feelings, but he had never before had such fine
material to work in. She had been surprisingly
crude when he first knew her ; capable of
making the most awkward inferences, of plunging
through thin ice, of recklessly undressing her
emotions ; but she had acquired, under the
discipline of his reticences and evasions, a skill
almost equal to his own, and perhaps more
remarkable in that it involved keeping time
with any tune he played and reading at sight
some uncommonly difficult passages.

It had taken Thursdale seven years to form
this fine talent ; but the result justified the
effort. At the crucial moment she had been
perfect : her way of greeting Miss Gaynor had
made him regret that he had announced his
engagement by letter. It was an evasion that
confessed a difficulty ; a deviation implying an
obstacle, where, by common consent, it was
agreed to see none ; it betrayed, in short, a lack
of confidence in the completeness of his method.
It had been his pride never to put himself in a
position which had to be quitted, as it were, by
the back door ; but here, as he perceived, the
main portals would have opened for him of
their own accord. All this, and much more, he
read in the finished naturalness with which Mrs.
Vervain had met Miss Gaynor. He had never
seen a better piece of work : there was no over-
eagerness, no suspicious warmth, above all (and
this gave her art the grace of a natural quality)

268 THE DILETTANTE

there were none of those damnable implications
whereby a woman, in welcoming her friend's
betrothed, may keep him on pins and needles
while she laps the lady in complacency. So
masterly a performance, indeed, hardly needed
the ofl^et or Miss Gaynor's door-step words —
* To be so kind to me, how she must have liked
ou ! ' — ^though he caught himself wishing it
y within the bounds of fitness to transmit
them, as a final tribute, to the one woman he
knew who was unfailingly certain to enjoy a
good thing. It was perhaps the one drawback
to his new situation that it might develop good
things which it would be impossible to hand on
to Margaret Vervain.

The fact that he had made the mistake of
under-rating his friend's powers, the conscious-
ness that his writing must have betrayed his
distrust of her efficiency, seemed an added
reason for turning down her street instead of
going on to the club. He would show her that
he knew how to value her ; he would ask her
to achieve with him a feat infinitely rarer and
more delicate than the one he had appeared to
avoid. Incidentally, he would also dispose of
the interval of time before dinner : ever since
he had seen Miss Gaynor oflF, an hour earlier, on
her return journey to Buffalo, he had been
wondering how he should put in the rest of the
afternoon. It was absurd, how he missed the
girl. . . . Yes, that was it : the desire to talk
about her was, after all, at the bottom of his

THE DILETTANTE 269

impulse to call on Mrs. Vervain ! It was
absurd, if you like ^- but it was delightfully
rejuvenating. He could recall the time when
he had been afraid of being obvious : now he
felt that this return to the primitive emotions
might be as restorative as a holiday in the
Canadian woods. And it was precisely by the
girl's candour, her directness, her lack of com-
plications, that he was taken. The sense that
she might say something rash at any moment
was positively exhilarating : if she had thrown
her arms about him at the station he would not
have given a thought to his crumpled dignity. '
It surprised Thursdale to find what freshness of
heart he brought to the adventure ; and though
his sense of irony prevented his ascribing his
intactness to any conscious purpose, he could
but rejoice in the fact that his sentimental,
economies had left him such a large surplus to/
draw upon.

Mrs. Vervain was at home — as usual. When
one visits the cemetery one expects to find the
angel on the tombstone, and it struck Thursdale
as another proof of his friend's good taste that
she had been in no undue haste to change her
habits. The whole house appeared to count on
his coming ; the footman took his hat and
overcoat as .naturally as though there had been
no lapse in his visits ; and the drawing-room at
once enveloped him in that atmosphere of tacit
intelligence which Mrs. Vervain imparted to
her very furniture.

270 THE DILETTANTE

It was a surprise that, in this general harmony
of circumstances, Mrs. Vervain should herself
sound the first fsdse note.

* You ? ' she exclaimed ; and the book she
held slipped from her hand.

It was crude, certainly ; unless it were a
touch of the finest art. The difficulty of classi-
fying it disturbed Thursdale's balance.

* why not?* he said, restoring the book.
* Isn't it my hour? ' And as she made no answer,
he added gently, * Unless it's some one else's ? '

She laid the book aside and sank back into
her chair. * Mine, merely,' she said.

*I hope that doesn't mean that you're im-
willing to share it ? '

* W ith you ? By no means. You're welcome
to my last crust.'

He looked at her reproachfully. *Do you
call this the last ? '

She smiled as he dropped into the seat across
the hearth. *It's a way of giving it more
flavour ! *

He returned the smile. *A visit to you
doesn't need such condiments.'

She took this with just the right measure of
retrospective amusement.

* Ah, but I want to put into this one a very
special taste,' she confessed.

Her smile was so confident, so reassuring,
that it lulled him into the imprudence of say-
ing : * Why should you want it to be different
from what was always so perfectly right ? '

THE DILETTANTE 271

She hesitated. * Doesn't the fact that it's
the last constitute a difference ? '

* The last — my last visit to you ? *

* Oh, metaphorically, I mean — ^there's a break
in the continuity/

Decidedly, she was pressing too hard: un-
learning his arts already !

* I don't recognize it,' he said. * Unless you

make me ' he added, with a note that slightly

stirred her attitude of languid attention.

She turned to him with grave eyes. * You
recognize no difference whatever ? '

* None — except an added link in the chain.'

* An added link ? '

* In having one more thing to like you for —
your letting Miss Gaynor see why I had already
so many.' He flattered himself that this turn
had taken the least hint of fatuity from the
phrase.

Mrs. Vervain sank into her former easy pose.
^ Was it that you came for ? ' she asked, almost
gaily.

*If it is necessary to have a reason — that
was one.'

* To talk to me about Miss Gaynor ? '

* To tell you how she talks about you.'

* That will be very interesting— especially if
you have seen her since her second visit to
me.'

* Her second visit ? ' Thursdale pushed his
chair back with a start and moved to another.
* She came to see you again ? '

272 THE DILETTANTE

* This morning, yes — by appointment/

He continued to look at her blankly. * You
sent for her ? *

* I didn't have to— she wrote and asked me
last night. But no doubt you have seen her
since.*

Thursdale sat silent. He was trying to
separate his words from his thoughts, but they
still clung together inextricably. 'I saw her
off just now at the station.'

* And she didn't tell you that she had been
here again ? '

•There was hardly time, I suppose — ^there
were people about ' he floundered.

* Ah, she'll write, then.'

He regained his composure. •Of course
she'll write : very often, I hope. You know
I'm absurdly in love,' he cried audaciously.

She tilted her head back, looking up at him
as he leaned against the chimney-piece. He
had leaned there so often that the attitude
touched a pulse which set up a throbbing in
her throat. * Oh, my poor Thursdale ! ' she
murmured.

* I suppose it's rather ridiculous,' he owned ;
and as she remained silent he added, with a
sudden break — ^•Or have you another reason
for pitying me ? '

Her answer was another question. •Have
you been back to your rooms since you left her ?'

* Since I left her at the station ? I came
straight here,'

• r

■>

THE DILETTANTE 273

*Ah, yes — you could: there was no reason
Her words passed into a silent musing.

Thursdale moved nervously nearer. *You
said you had something to tell me } '

* Perhaps I had better let her do so. There
may be a letter at your rooms.*

* A letter ? What do you mean } A letter
from her ? What has happened ? '

His paleness shook her, and she raised a
hand of reassurance. ^Nothing has happened
— perhaps that is just the worst of it. You
always hated^ you know/ she added incoherently,

* to have things happen : you never would let
them.'

* And now ^ '

* Well, that was what she came here for : I
supposed you had guessed. To know if any-
thing had happened.'

* Had happened ? ' He gazed at her slowly.

* Between you and me ? ' he said with a rush of
light.

The words were so much cruder than any
that had ever passed between them that the
colour rose to her face ; but she held his
startled gaze.

*You know girls are not quite as unso-
phisticated as they used to be. Are you
surprised that such an idea should occur to
her } '

His own colour answered hers : it was the
only reply that came to him.

Mrs. Vervain went on smoothly ; * I supposed

274 THE DILETTANTE

it might have struck you that there were times
when we presented that appearance/

He made an impatient gesture. ^A man's
; past is his own ! '

* Perhaps — ^it certwnly never belongs to the
f woman who has shared it. But one learns such
f truths only by experience ; and Miss Gaynor

is naturally inexperienced.'

* Of course — but — supposing her act a natural
one' — he floundered lamentably among his
innuendoes — * I still don't see — ^how there was
anything—'

* Anything to take hold of? There
wasn't '

* Well, then ? ' escaped him, in undisguised
satisfaction ; but as she did not complete the
sentence he went on with a faltering laugh :
*She can hardly object to the existence of a
mere friendship between us ! '

* But she does,' said Mrs. Vervain.
Thursdale stood perplexed. He had seen,

on the previous day, no trace of jealousy or
resentment in his betrothed : he could still hear
the candid ring of the girl's praise of Mrs.
Vervain. If she were such an abyss of insin-
cerity as to dissemble distrust under such frank-
ness, she must at least be more subde than to
bring her doubts to her rival for solution. The
situation seemed one through which one could
no longer move in a penumbra, and he let in
a burst of light with the direct query : * Won't
you explain what you mean ? '

THE DILETTANTE 275

Mrs. Vervain sat silent, not provokingly, as
though to prolong his distress, but as if, in the
attenuated phraseology he had taught her, it
was difficult to find words robust enough to
meet his challenge. It was the first time he
had ever asked her to explain anything ; and
she had lived so long in dread of offering
elucidations which were not wanted, that she
seemed unable to produce one on the spot.

At last she said slowly: *She came to find
out if you were really free.*

Thursdale coloured again. * Free ? ' he
stammered, with a sense of physical disgust at
contact with such crassness.

* Yes — if I had quite done with you.* She
smiled in recovered security. *It seems she
likes clear outline ; she has a passion for
definitions.'

*Yes — well.^* he said, wincing at the echo
of his own subtlety.

*Well — and when I told her that you had
never belonged to me, she wanted me to define
my status — to know exactly where I had stood
all along.*

Thursdale sat gazing at her intently ; his
hand was not yet on the clue. *And even
when you had told her that *

* Even when I had told her that I had had
no status — that I had never stood anywhere,
in any sense she meant,* said Mrs. Vervain,
slowly — *even then she wasn't satisfied, it
seems,'

)

276 THE DILETTANTE

He uttered an uneasy exclamation. *She
didn't believe you, you mean ? '

^ I mean that she did believe me : too
thoroughly/

* Well, then — in God's name, what did she
want ? *

* Something more — ^those were the words she
used/

* Something more ? Between — ^between you
and me ? Is it a conundrum ? ' He laughed
awkwardly.

* Girls are not what they were in my day ;
they are no longer forbidden to contemplate the
relation of the sexes.*

* So it seems ! ' he commented. ^ But since,

in this case, there wasn't any ' He broke off,

catching the dawn of a revelation in her gaze.

* That's just it. The unpardonable offence
has been — in our not offending.'

He flung himself down despairingly. *I
give it up ! — ^What did you tell her ? ' he burst
out with sudden crudeness.

* The exact truth. If I had only known,*
she broke off with a beseeching tenderness,
* won*t you believe that I would still have lied
for you } *

* Lied for me ? Why on earth should you
have lied for either of us ^ '

* To save you — to hide you from her to the
last ! As I've hidden you from myself all these
years ! ' She stood up with a sudden tragic
import in her movement. *You believe me

THE DILETTANTE 277

capable of that, don't you? If I had only
guessed — but I have never known a girl like
her ; she had the truth out of me with a
spring.*

* The truth that you and I had never '

^ Had never — never in all these years ! Oh,
she knew why — she measured us both in a flash.
She didn't suspect me of having haggled with
you — her words pelted me like hail. " He just
took what he wanted — sifted and sorted you to
suit his taste. Burnt out the gold and left a
heap of cinders. And you let him — you let
yourself be cut in bits " — she mixed her meta-
phors a little — " be cut in bits, and used or dis-
carded, while all the while every drop of blood
in you belonged to him ! But he's Shylock —
he's Shylock — and you have bled to death of
the pound of flesh he has cut out of you." But
she despises me the most, you know — far the
most ' Mrs. Vervain ended.

The words fell strangely on the scented still-
ness of the room : they seemed out of harmony
with its setting of afternoon intimacy, the kind
of intimacy on which, at any moment, a visitor
might intrude without perceptibly lowering the
atmosphere. It was as though a grand opera-
singer had strained the acoustics of a private
music-room.

Thursdale stood up, facing his hostess.
Half the room was between them, but they
seemed to stare close at each other now that the
veils of reticence and ambiguity had fallen.

278 THE DILETTANTE

His first words were characteristic : * She
Jaes despise me, then ? ' he exclaimed. *

* She thinks the pound of flesh you took was
a little too near the heart/

He was excessively pale. * Please tell me
exactly what she said of me/

* She did not speak much of you : she is
proud. But I gather that while she under-
stands love or indiflference, her eyes have never
been opened to the many intermediate shades
of feeling. At any rate, she expressed an im-
willingness to be taken with reservations — ^she
thinks you would have loved her better if you
had loved some one else first. The point of
view is original— ^e in^sts on a man with a
past ! •

^ Oh, a past — if she*s serious — I could rake
up a past ! * he said with a laugh.

* So I suggested ; but she has her eyes on
this particukr portion of it. She insists on
making it a test case. She wanted to know
what you had done to me ; and before I
could guess her drift I blundered into telling
her.*

Thursdale drew a difficult breath. * I never
supposed— your revenge is complete,' he ssud
slowly.

He heard a little gasp in her throat. ^ My
revenge ? When I sent for you to warn you
— to save you from being surprised as / was
surprised f '

*YouVe very good — ^but it's rather late to

THE DILETTANTE 279

talk of saving me.' He held out his hand in
the mechanical gesture of leave-taking.

' How you must care ! — for I never saw you
so dull/ was her answer. * Don't you see that
it's not too late for me to help you ? ' And as
he continued to stare, she brought out sublimely :
*Take the rest — in imagination! Let it at
least be of that much use to you. Tell her Ij
lied to her — she's too ready to believe it ! And
so, after all, in a sense, I shan't have been
wasted.'

His stare hung on her, widening to a kind
of wonder. She gave the look back brightly,
unblushingly, as though the expedient were
too simple to need oblique approaches. It was
extraordinary how a few words had swept them
from an atmosphere of the most complex dis-
simulations to this contact of naked souls.

It was not in Thursdale to expand with the
pressure of fate ; but something in him cracked
with it, and the rift let in new light. He went
up to his friend and took her hand.

* You would do it — you would do it ! '

She looked at him, smiling, but her hand
shook.

* Good-bye,' he said, kissing it.

* Good-bye ? You are going ? '

* To get my letter.*

*Your letter? The letter won't matter, if
you will only do what I ask.'

He returned her gaze. * I might, I suppose,
without being out of character. Only, don't

a8o THE DILETTANTE

you see that if your plan helped me it could
only harm her ? *
*HarmA^?'

* To sacrifice you wouldn't make me different.
I shall go on being what I have always been — >
sifting and sorting, as she calls it. Do you want
my punishment to fall on her ? '

She looked at him long and deeply. ' Ah,
if I had to choose between you ! '

* You would let her take her chance ? But
I can't, you see. I must take my punishment
alone.'

She drew her hand away, sighing. *Oh,
there will be no punishment for either of you.'

* For either of us f There will be the read-
ing of her letter for me.'

She shook her head with a slight laugh.
* There will be no letter.'

Thursdale faced about from the threshold
with fresh life in his look. * No letter ? You
don't mean '

* I mean that she's been with you since I saw
her — she's seen you and heard your voice. If
there is a letter, she has recalled it — from the
first station, by tel^raph.'

He turned back to the door, forcing an
answer to her smile. ^But in the meanwhile
I shall have read it,' he said.

The door closed on him, and she hid her
eyes from the dreadful emptiness of the room.

THE QUICKSAND

aSi

As Mrs. Quentin's victoria, driving homeward,
turned from the Park into Fifth Avenue, she
divined her son's tall figure walking ahead of
her in the twilight. His long stride covered
the ground more rapidly than usual, and she
had a premonition that, if he were going home
at that hour, it was because he wanted to see
her.

Mrs. Quentin, though not a fanciful woman,
was sometimes aware of a sixth sense enabling
her to detect the faintest vibrations of her son's
impulses. She was too shrewd to fancy herself
the one mother in possession of this faculty, but
she permitted herself to think that few could
exercise it more discreetly. If she could not
help overhearing Alan's thoughts, she had the
courage to keep her discoveries to herself, the
tact to take for granted nothing that lay below
the surface of their spoken intercourse : she
knew that most people would rather have their
letters read than their thoughts. For this super-
feminine discretion Alan repaid her by — being
Alan. There could have been no completer

283

284 THE QUICKSAND i

reward. He was the key to the meaning of
life, the justification of what must have seemed
as incomprehensible as it was odious, had it not
all-suffidngly ended in himself. He was a
perfect son, and Mrs. Quentin had always
hungered for perfection.

Her house, in a minor way, bore witness to
the craving. One felt it to be the result of a
series of eliminations : there was nothing for-
tuitous in its blending of line and colour. The
almost morbid finish of every material detail of
her life suggested the possibility that a diversity
of energies had, by some pressure of circum-
stance, been forced into the channel of a narrow
dilettantism. Mrs. Quentin*s fastidiousness had,
indeed, the flaw of being too one-^ided. Her
friends were not always worthy of the chairs
they sat in, and she overlooked in her associates
defects she would not have tolerated in her bric-
a-brac. Her house was, in fact, never so dis-
tinguished as when it was empty ; and it was at
its best in the warm fire-lit ^ence that now
received her.

Her son, who had overtaken her on the
door-step, followed her into the drawing-room,
and threw himself into an arm-chair near the
fire, while she laid off her furs and busied herself
about the tea-table. For a while neither spoke ;
but glancing at him across the kettle, his mother
noticed that he sat staring at the embers with a
look she had never seen on his face, though its
arrogant young outline was as familiar to her

I THE QUICKSAND 285

as her own thoughts. The look extended itself
to his negligent attitude, to the droop of his
long fine hands, the dejected tilt of his head
against the cushions. It was like the moral
equivalent of physical fatigue : he looked, as he
himself would have phrased it, dead-beat, played
out. Such an air was so foreign to his usual
bright indomitableness that Mrs. Quentin had
the sense of an unfamiliar presence, in which
she must observe herself, must raise hurried
barriers against an alien approach. It was one
of the drawbacks of their excessive intimacy that
any break in it seemed a chasm.

She was accustomed to let his thoughts circle
about her before they settled into speech, and
she now sat in motionless expectancy, as though
a sound might frighten them away.

At length, without turning his eyes from the
fire, he said : * I'm so glad you're a nice old-
fashioned intuitive woman. It's painful to see
them think.'

Her apprehension had already preceded him.
* Hope Fenno— ? ' she faltered.

He nodded. * She's been thinking — ^hard.
It was very panful — to me at least ; and I
don't believe she enjoyed it : she said she
didn't.' He stretched his feet to the fire.
*The result of her cogitations is that she
won't have me. She arrived at this by pure
ratiocination — it's not a question of feeling, you
understand. I'm the only man she's ever
loved — but she won't have me. What novels

286 THE QUICKSAND i

did you read when you were young, dear?
Tin convinced it all turns on that. If she'd
been brought up on Trollope and Whyte-
Melville, instead of Tolstoi and Mrs. Ward,
we should have now been vulgarly ^tting on a
sofa, trying on the engagement-ring.'

Mrs. Quentin at first was kept silent by the
mother's instinctive anger that the girl she has
not wanted for her son should have dared
to refuse him. Then she ssud : ^ Tell me,
dear.'

* My good woman, she has scruples.'

* Scruples ? '

* Against the paper. She objects to me in
my official capacity as owner of the Radiator.^

His mother did not echo his laugh.

^She had found a solution, of course — ^she
overflows with expedients. I was to chuck the
paper, and we were to live happily ever after-
ward on canned food and virtue. She even
had an alternative ready — women are so full
[ of resources ! I was to turn the Radiator into
an independent organ, and run it at a loss to
show the public what a model newspaper ought
to be. On the whole, I think she fancied this
plan more than the other — it commended
itself to her as being more uncomfortable and
aggressive. It's not the fashion nowadays to
be good by stealth.'

Mrs. Quentin said to herself : *I didn't know
how much he cared ! ' Aloud she murmured :
* You must give her time.'

I THE QUICKSAND 287

* To move out the old prejudices and make
room for new ones/

• My dear mother, those she has are brand-
new ; that's the trouble with them. She's
tremendously up-to-date. She takes in all
the moral fashion-papers, and wears the newest
thing in ethics.'

Her resentment lost its way in the intricacies
of his metaphor. * Is she so very religious ? '

• You dear archaic woman ! She's hopelessly
irreligious ; that's the difficulty. You can make |
a religious woman believe almost anything : \
there's the habit of credulity to work on. But /
when a girl's faith in the Deluge has been ;
shaken, it's very hard to inspire her with con-
fidence. She makes you feel that, before be-
lieving in you, it's her duty as a conscientious
agnostic to find out whether you're not
obsolete, or whether the text isn't corrupt, or
somebody hasn't proved conclusively that you
never existed, anyhow.'

Mrs. Quentin was again silent. The two
moved in that atmosphere of implications and
assumptions where the lightest word may shake
down the dust of countless stored impressions ;
and speech was sometimes more difficult be-
tween them than had their union been less
close.

Presently she ventured, * It's impossible ? *

* Impossible ? '

She seemed to use her words cautiously, like

288 THE QUICKSAND i

weapons that might slip and inflict a cut.

* What she suggests.'

Her son, raising himself, turned to look at
her for the first time. Their glance met in a
shock of comprehen^on. He was with her
against the girl, then ! Her satisfaction over-
flowed in a murmur of tenderness.

* Of course not, dear. One can't change —
change one's life. . . .'

* One's self,' he emended. * That's what
I tell her. What's the use of my giving up
the paper if I keep my point of view } '

The pychological (Ustinction attracted her.

* Which IS it she minds most ? '

* Oh, the paper — for the present. She
undertakes to modify the point of view after-
ward. All she asks is that I shall renounce
my heresy : the gift of grace will come later.'

Mrs. Quentin sat gazing into her untouched
cup. Her son's first words had produced in
her the hallucinated sense of struggling in the
thick of a crowd that he could not see. It
was horrible to feel herself hemmed in by
influences imperceptible to him ; yet if any-
thing could have increased her misery it would
have been the discovery that her ghosts had
become visible.

As though to divert his attentioy, she pre-
cipitately asked : * And you ? '

His answer carried the shock of an evoca-
tion. *I merely asked her what she thought
of^^K.'

I THE QUICKSAND 289

*Ofme?'

* She admires you immensely, you know/
For a moment Mrs. Quentin's cheek showed

the lingering light of girlhood : praise trans-
mitted by her son acquired something of the
transmitter's merit. * Well ? ' she smiled.

* Well — you didn't make my father give up
the Radiator^ did you ? '

His mother, stiffening, made a circuitous
return : * She never comes here. How can
she know me ? '

* She's so poor ! She goes out so little.*
He rose and leaned against the mantelpiece,
dislodging with impatient fingers a slender
bronze wrestler poised on a porphyry base,
between two warm -toned Spanish ivories.

*And then her mother ' he added, as if

involuntarily.

*Her mother has never visited me,' Mrs.
Quentin finished for him.

He shrugged his shoulders. * Mrs. Fenno
has the scope of a wax doll. Her rule of
conduct is taken from her grandmother's
sampler.'

*But the daughter is so modern — and
yet '

* The result is the same ? Not exactly. She
admires you — oh, immensely ! * He replaced
the bronze and turned to his mother with a
smile. * Aren't you on some hospital committee
together ? What especially strikes her is your
way of doing good. She says philanthropy is

290 THE QUICKSAND i

not a line of conduct but a state of mind — ^and
it appears that you are one of the elect.'

As, in the vague diffusion of phy^cal pdn,
relief seems to come with the acuter pang of a
single nerve, Mrs. Quentin felt herself suddenly
eased by a rush of anger against the girl. ^ If
she loved you * she began.

His gesture checked her. 'Tm not asking
you to get her to do that.'

The two were agaun silent, facing each other
in the disarray of a common catastrophe — as
though their thoughts, at the summons of
danger, had rushed naked into action. Mrs.
Quentin, at this revealing moment, saw for the
first time how many elements of her son's
character had seemed comprehensible simply
because they were familiar : as, in reading a
foreign language, we take the meaning of certain
words for granted till the context corrects us.
Often as, in a given case, her maternal musings
had figured his conduct, she now found herself
at a loss to forecast it ; and with this failure of
intuition came a sense of the subserviency which
had hitherto made her counsels but the anticipa-
tion of his wish. Her despair escaped in the
moan, * What is it you ask me ? '

* To talk to her.*

* Talk to her ? '

* Show her — tell her — make her understand
that the paper has always been a thing outside
your life — that hasn't touched you — that needn't
touch her. Only, let her hear you — watch you

I THE QUICKSAND 291

— be with you — she'll see . . . she can't help
seeing. . . .'

His mother faltered. * But if she's given you
her reasons ? '

* Let her give them to you ! If she can —
when she sees you. . . .' His impatient hand
again displaced the wrestler. *I care abomin-
ably,' he confessed.

On the Fenno threshold a sudden sense of the
futility of the attempt had almost driven Mrs.
Quentin back to her carriage ; but the door
was already opening, and a parlour-maid, who
believed that Miss Fenno was in, led the way to
the depressing drawing-room. It was the kind
of room in which no member of the family is
likely to be found except after dinner or after
death. The chairs and tables looked like poor
relations who had repaid their keep by a long
career of grudging usefulness : they seemed
banded together against intruders in a sullen
conspiracy of discomfort. Mrs. Quentin, keenly
susceptible to such influences, read failure in
every angle of the upholstery. She was in-
capable of the vulgar error of thinking that
Hope Fenno might be induced to marry Alan
for his money ; but between this assumption
and the inference that the girl's imagination
might be touched by the finer possibilities of
wealth, good taste adniitted a distinction. The
Fenno furniture, however, presented to such

292

II THE QUICKSAND 293

reasoning the obtuseness of its black -walnut
chamferings ; and something in its attitude
suggested that its owners would be as uncom-
promising. The room showed none of the
modern attempts at palliation, no apologetic
draping of facts ; and Mrs. Quentin, provision-
ally perched on a green-reps Gothic sofa with
which it was clearly impossible to establish any
closer relation, concluded that, had Mrs. Fenno
needed another seat of the same size, she would
have set out placidly to match the one on which
her visitor now languished.

To Mrs. Quentin's fancy, Hope Fenno's
opinions, presently imparted in a clear young
voice from the opposite angle of the Gothic
sofa, partook of the character of their surround- f
ings. The girl's mind was like a large light
empty place, scantily furnished with a few
massive prejudices, not designed to add to any
one's comfort but too ponderous to be easily
moved. Mrs. Quentin's own intelligence, in
which Its owner, in an artistically shaded half-
light, had so long moved amid a delicate com-
plexity of sensations, seemed in comparison
suddenly close and crowded ; and in taking
refuge there from the glare of the young girl's
candour, the older woman found herself stumb-
ling in an unwonted obscurity. Her uneasiness
resolved itself into a sense of irritation against
her listener. Mrs. Quentin knew that the
momentary value of any argument lies in the
capacity of the mind to which it is addressed ;

294 THE QUICKSAND ir

and as her shafts of persuasion spent themselves
against Miss Fenno's obduracy, she said to
herself that, since conduct is governed by
emotions rather than ideas, the really strong
people are those who mistake their sensations
for opinions. Viewed in this light, Miss Fenno
was certainly very strong : there was an un-
mistakable ring of finality in the tone with
which she declared :

* It's impossible/

Mrs. Quentin's answer veiled the least shade
of feminine resentment. *I told Alan that
where he had failed there was no chance of my
making an impression.'

Hope Fenno laid on her visitor's an almost
reverential hand. *Dear Mrs. Quentin, it's
the impression you make that confirms the
impossibility.'

Mrs. Quentin waited a moment : she was
perfectly aware that, where her feelings were
concerned, her sense of humour was not to be
relied on. * Do I make such an odious impres-
sion.^' she asked at length, with a smile that
seemed to give the girl her choice of two
meanings.

* You make such a beautiful one ! It's too
beautiful — it obscures my judgment.'

Mrs. Quentin looked at her thoughtfully.
•Would it be permissible, I wonder, for an
older woman to suggest that, at your age, it
isn't always a misfortune to have what one calls
one's judgment temporarily obscured ? *

II THE QUICKSAND 295

Miss Fenno flushed. *I try not to judge
others '

* You judge Alan/

*Ah, he is not others/ she murmured with
an accent that touched the older woman.

* You judge his mother/

* I don't ; I don't.'

Mrs. Quentin pressed her point. *You
judge yourself, then, as you would be in my
position — and your verdict condemns me.'

* How can you think it ? It's because I
appreciate the diflference in our point of view
that I find it so diflSicult to defend myself '

* Against what ? '

* The temptation to imagine that I might be
^syou are — feeling as I do.'

Mrs. Quentin rose with a sigh. *My
child, in my day love was less subtle.' She
added, after a moment : ^ Alan is a perfect
son.'

* Ah, that again — that makes it worse ! '

* Worse ? •

* Just as your goodness does, your sweetness,
your immense indulgence in letting me discuss
things with you in a way that must seem almost
an impertinence.'

Mrs. Quentin's smile was not without
irony. * You must remember that I do it for
Alan.'

* That's what I love you for ! ' the girl
instantly returned ; and again her tone touched
her listener.

a96 THE QUICKSAND ii

* And yet you're sacrificing him — and to an

^ Isn't it to ideas that all the sacrifices that
were worth while have been made ? '

* One may sacrifice one's self/
Miss Fenno's colour rose. * That's what I'm

doing/ she said gently.

Mrs. Quentin took her hand. * I believe you
are/ she answered. *And it isn't true that I
speak only for Alan. Perhaps I did when I
began ; but now I want to plead for you too —
a^inst yourself.' She paused, and then went on
with a deeper note : *• I have let you, as you say,
speak your mind to me in terms that some
women might have resented, because I wanted to
show you now little, as the years go on, theories,
ideas, abstract conceptions of life, weigh against
the actual, against the particular way in which
life presents itself to us — ^to women especially.
To decide beforehand exactly how one ought to
behave in given circumstances is like deciding
that one will follow a certain direction in crossing
an unexplored country. Afterward we find that
j we must turn out for the obstacles — cross the
rivers where they're shallowest — take the tracks
that others have beaten — make all sorts of
unexpected concessions. Life is made up of
compromises : that is what youth refuses to
understand. I've lived long enough to doubt
whether any real good ever came of sacrificing
beautiful facts to even more beautiful theories.
Do I seem casuistical ? I don't know — there

n THE QUICKSAND 297

may be losses either way . . . but the love of
the man one loves ... of the child one loves
. . . that makes up for everything. . . .*

She had spoken with a thrill which seemed to
communicate itself to the hand her listener had
left in hers. Her eyes filled suddenly, but
through their dimness she saw the girl's lips
shape a last desperate denial : * Don't you see it's
because I feel all this that I mustn't — that
I can't?'

Ill

Mrs. Quentin, in the late spring afternoon,

had turned in at the doors of the Metropolitan

Museum. She had been walking in the Park, in

a solitude oppressed by the ever-present sense of

her son's trouble, and had suddenly remembered

that some one had added a Beltraffio to the

: collection. It was an old habit of Mrs. Quentin's

. to seek in the enjoyment of the beautiful the

, distraction that most of her acquaintances

' appeared to find in each other's company. She

j had few friends, and their society was welcome

' to her only in her more superficial moods ; but

she could drug anxiety with a picture as some

women can soothe it with a bonnet.

During the six months which had elapsed
since her visit to Miss Fenno she had been
conscious of a pain of which she had supposed
herself no longer capable : as a man will continue
to feel the ache of an amputated arm. She had
fancied that all her centres of feeling had been
transferred to Alan ; but she now found herself
subject to a kind of dual suffering, in which her
individual pang was the keener in that it divided

398

Ill THE QUICKSAND 299

her from her son*s. Alan had surprised her :
she had not foreseen that he would take a senti-
mental rebuff so hard. His disappointment
took the uncommunicative form of a sterner
application to work. He threw himself into the
concerns of the Radiator with an aggressive-
ness which almost betrayed itself in the paper.
Mrs. Quentin never read the Radiator^ but from
the glimpses of it reflected in the other journals
she gathered that it was at least not being
subjected to the moral reconstruction which had
been one of Miss Fenno's alternatives.

Mrs. Quentin never spoke to her son of what
had happened. She was superior to the cheap
satisfaction of avenging his injury by depreciating
its cause. She knew that in sentimental sorrows
such consolations are as salt in the wound. The
avoidance of a subject so vividly present to both
could not but affect the closeness of their
relation. An invisible presence hampered their
liberty of speech and thought. The girl was
always between them ; and to hide the sense of
her intrusion they began to be less frequently
together. It was then that Mrs. Quentin
measured the extent of her isolation. Had she
ever dared to forecast such a situation, she would
have proceeded on the conventional theory that
her son's suffering must draw her nearer to him ;
and this was precisely the relief that was denied
her. Alan's uncommunicativeness extended
below the level of speech, and his mother,
reduced to the helplessness of dead-reckoning,

300 THE QUICKSAND in

had not even the solace of adapting her sympathy
to his needs. She did not know what he felt :
his course was incalculable to her. She some-
times wondered if she had become as incompre-
hensible to him ; and it was to find a moment's
refuge from the dogging misery of such con-
jectures that she had now turned in at the
Museum.

The long line of mellow canvases seemed to
receive her into the rich calm of an autumn
twilight. She might have been walking in an
enchanted wood where the footfall of care never
sounded. So deep was the sense of seclusion
that, as she turned from her prolonged com-
munion with the new Bdtraffio, it was a surprise
to find that she was not alone.

A young lady who had risen from the central
ottoman stood in suspended flight as Mrs.
Quentin faced her. The older woman was the
first to regain her self-possession.

* Miss Fenno ! ' she said.

The girl advanced with a blush. As it faded,
Mrs. Quentin noticed a change in her. There
had always been something bright and banner-
like in her aspect, but now her look drooped,
and she hung at half-mast, as it were. Mrs.
Quentin, in the embarrassment of surprising a
secret that its possessor was doubtless unconscious
of betraying, reverted hurriedly to the Beltraffio.

• I came to see this,' she said. * It's very
beautiful.'

Miss Fenno's eye travelled incuriously over

in THE QUICKSAND 301

the mystic blue reaches of the landscape. ^I
suppose so/ she assented ; adding, after another
tentative pause : * You come here often, don*t
you ? *

*Very often/ Mrs, Quentin answered. *I
find pictures a great help/

* A help?'

* A rest, I mean ... if one is tired or out
of sorts.*

* Ah,' Miss Fenno murmured, looking down.
*This Beltraffio is new, you know,' Mrs.

Quentin continued. * What a wonderful back-
ground, isn't it ? Is he a painter who interests
you?'

The girl glanced again at the dusky canvas,
as though in a final endeavour to extract from
it a clue to the consolations of art. ^ I don't
know,' she said at length ; * I'm afraid I don't
understand pictures.' She moved nearer to Mrs,
Quentin and held out her hand.

* You're going ? '
*Yes.'

Mrs. Quentin looked at her. * Let me drive
you home,' she said, impulsively. She was feel-
ing, with a shock of surprise, that it gave her,
after all, no pleasure to see how much the girl
had suffered.

Miss Fenno stiffened perceptibly. * Thank
you ; I shall like the walk.'

Mrs. Quentin dropped her hand with a
corresponding movement of withdrawal, and
a momentary wave of antagonism seemed to

302 THE QUICKSAND in

sweep the two women apart. Then, as Mrs.
Quentin, bowing slightly, again addressed her-
self to the picture, she felt a sudden touch on
her arm.

* Mrs. Quentin/ the girl faltered, * I really
came here because I saw your carriage.' Her
eyes sank, and then fluttered back to her hearer's
face. * I've been horribly unhappy ! ' she ex-
claimed.

Mrs. Quentin was silent. If Hope Fenno
had expected an immediate response to her
appeal, she was disappointed. The older woman's
face was like a veil dropped before her thoughts.

•I've thought so often,' the girl went on
precipitately, *of what you said that day you
came to see me last autumn. I think I under-
stand now what you meant — what you tried to
make me see. . . . Oh, Mrs. Quentin,' she
broke out, * I didn't mean to tell you this — I
never dreamed of it till this moment — but you
do remember what you said, don't you ? You
must remember it ! And now that I've met
you in this way, I can't help telling you that
I believe — I begin to believe — that you were
quite right, after all.'

Mrs. Quentin had listened without moving ;
but now she raised her eyes with a slight smile.
* Do you wish me to say this to Alan ? ' she
asked.

The girl flushed, but her glance braved the
smile. * Would he still care to hear it ? ' she
said fearlessly.

Ill THE QUICKSAND 303

Mrs. Quentin took momentary refuge in a
renewed inspection of the Beltraffio ; then,
turning, she said, with a kind of reluctance :

* He would still care.'

* Ah ! ' broke from the girl.

During this exchange of words the two
speakers had drifted unconsciously toward
one of the benches. Mrs. Quentin glanced
about her : a custodian who had been hovering
in the doorway saimtered into the adjoining
gallery, and they remained alone among the
silvery Vandykes and flushed bituminous Halses.
Mrs. Quentin sank down on the bench and
reached a hand to the girl.

* Sit by me,' she said.

Miss Fenno dropped beside her. In both
women the stress of emotion was too strong for
speech. The girl was still trembling, and Mrs.
Quentin was the first to regain her composure.

* You say you've suffered,' she began at last.

* Do you suppose / haven't ? '

* I knew you had. That made it so much
worse for me — that I should have been the cause
of your suflfering for Alan ! '

Mrs. Quentin drew a deep breath. *Not
for Alan only,' she said. Miss Fenno turned
on her a wondering glance. *Not for Alan
only. That pain every woman expects — and
knows how to bear. We all know our children
must have such disappointments, and to suffer
with them is not the deepest pain. It's the
suffering apart — ^in ways they don't understand '

304 THE QUICKSAND iii

She breathed deeply. 'I want you to know
what I mean. You were right— that day — and
I was wrong/

* Oh/ the girl faltered.

Mrs. Quentin went on in a voice of pas-
sionate lucidity. *I knew it then — I knew it
reren while I was trying to argue with you —
I've always known it ! I didn't want my son
I to marry you till I heard your reasons for
refusing him ; and then— then I longed to see
you his wife ! *

' Oh, Mrs. Quentin ! '

^ I longed for it ; but I knew it mustn't be.'

' Mustn't be i '

Mrs. Quentin shook her head sadly, and the
girl, gaining courage from this mute negation,
cried mth an uncontrollable escape of feeling :

^ It's because you thought me hard, obstinate,
narrow-minded ? Oh, I understand that so
well 1 My self^righteousness must have seemed
so petty ! A girl who could sacrifice a man's
future to her own moral vanity — ^for it was a
form of vanity ; you showed me that pltunly
enough — how you must have despised me!
But I am not that girl now-^indeed I'm not.
I'm not impulsive — I think things out. I've
thought this out. I know AJan loves me-^I
know how he loves me — ^and I believe I can
help him-— oh, not in the ways I had fancied
before — but just merely by loving him.' She
paused, but Mrs. Quentin made no sign. ^I
see it all so differently now. I see what an

in THE QUICKSAND 305

influence love itself may be — how my believing
in him, loving him, accepting him just as he is,
might help him more than any theories, any
arguments. I might have seen this long ago in
looking at you — as he often told me — in seeing
how you'd kept yourself apart from — from —
Mr. Quentin*s work and his — been always the
beautiful side of life to them — ^kept their faith
alive in spite of themselves — not by interfering,
preaching, reforming, but by — just loving them

and being there * She looked at Mrs.

Quentin with a simple nobleness. * It isn*t as if
I cared for the money, you know ; if I cared
for that, I should be afraid *

* You will care for it in time,* Mrs. Quentin
said suddenly.

Miss Fenno drew back, releasing her hand.
* In time ? '

*Yes; when there's nothing else left.' She
stared a moment at the pictures. * My poor
child,' she broke out, * I've heard all you say so
often before ! *

* You've heard it ? '

* Yes — from myself. I felt as you do, I
argued as you do, I acted as I mean- to prevent
your doing, when I married Alan's father.'

The long empty gallery seemed to reverberate
with the girl's startled exclamation — * Oh, Mrs.
Quentin '

* Hush ; let me speak. Do you suppose I'd
do this if you were the kind of pink-and-white
idiot he ought to have married ? It's because I

3o6 THE QUICKSAND iii

see you're alive, as I was, tingling with beliefs,
ambitions, energies, as I was — ^that I can't see
you walled up dive, as I was, without stretching
out a hand to save you ! ' She sat gazing
rigidly forward, her eyes on the pictures, speak-
ing in the low precipitate tone of one who tries
to press the meaning of a lifetime into a few
breathless sentences.

* When I met Alan's father,' she went on, * I
knew nothing of his — his work. We met
abroad, where I had been living \nth my mother.
That was twenty-six years ago, when the Radiator
was less — ^less notorious than it is now. I knew
my husband owned a newspaper — a great news-
paper — and nothing more. I had never seen a
copy of the Radiator ; I had no notion what it
stood for, in politics— or in other ways. We
were married in Europe, and a few months
afterward we came to live here. People were
already beginning to talk about the Radiator.
My husband, on leaving college, had bought it
with some money an old uncle had left him, and
the public at first was merely curious to see
what an ambitious, stirring young man without
any experience of journalism was going to make
out of his experiment. They found first of all
that he was going to make a great deal of money
out of it. I found that out too. I was so
happy in other ways that it didn't make much
difference at first ; though it was pleasant to be
able to help my mother, to be generous and
charitable, to live in a nice house, and wear the

Ill THE QUICKSAND 307

handsome gowns he liked to see me in. But
still it didn't really count — it counted so little
that when, one day, I learned what the Radiator
was, I would have gone out into the streets
barefooted rather than live another hour on the
money it brought in. . . .* Her voice sank,
and she paused to steady it. The girl at her
side did not speak or move. * I shall never
forget that day,' she began again. * The paper
had stripped bare some family scandal — some
miserable bleeding secret that a dozen unhappy
people had been struggling to keep out of print
— that would have been kept out if my husband
had not — Oh, you must guess the rest ! I can't
go on ! '

She felt a hand on hers. * You mustn't go
on,' the girl whispered.

* Yes, I must — I must ! You must be made
to understand.' She drew a deep breath. * My
husband was not like Alan. When he found
out how I felt about it he was surprised at first
— but gradually he began to see — or at least I
fancied he saw — the hatefulness of it. At any
rate he saw how I suffered, and he offered to
give up the whole thing — to sell the paper. It
couldn't be done all of a sudden, of course — he
made me see that — for he had put all his money
in it, and he had no special aptitude for any
other kind of work. He was a born Journalist
— ^like Alan. It was a great sacrifice for him to
give up the paper, but he promised to do it —
in time — when a good opportunity offered.

3o8 THE QUICKSAND iii

Meanwhile, of course, he wanted to build it up,
to increase the circulation — and to do that he
had to keep on in the same way — ^he made that
clear to me. I saw that we were in a vicious
circle. The paper, to sell well, had to be made
more and more detestable and disgraceful. At
first I rebelled — ^but somehow — I can*t tell you
how it was — after that first concession the ground
seemed to give under me : with every struggle
I sank deepen And then — then Alan was born.
He was such a delicate baby that there was very
little hope of saving him. But money did it —
the money from the paper. I took him abroad
to see the best physicians — I took him to a
warm climate every winter. In hot weather the
doctors recommended sea air, and we had a
yacht and cruised every summer. I owed his
life to the Radiator. And when he began to
grow stronger the habit was formed — the habit
of luxury. He could not get on without the
things he had always been used to. He pined
in bad air ; he drooped under monotony and
discomfort ; he throve on variety, amusement,
travel, every kind of novelty and excitement.
And all I wanted for him his inexhaustible
foster-mother was there to give !

* My husband said nothing, but he must have
seen how things were going. There was no
more talk of giving up the Radiator. He never
reproached me with my inconsistency, but I
thought he must despise me, and the thought
made me reckless. I determined to ignore the

Ill THE QUICKSAND 309

paper altogether — to take what it gave as though
I didn't know where it came from. And to
excuse this I invented the theory that one may,
so to speak, purify money by putting it to
good uses. I gave away a great deal in charity
— I indulged myself very little at first. All the
money that was not spent on Alan I tried to do
good with. But gradually, as my boy grew up,
the problem became more complicated. How
was I to protect Alan from the contamination I
had let him live in ? I couldn't preach by ex-
ample — couldn't hold up his father as a warning,
or denounce the money we were living on. All
I could do was to disguise the inner ugliness of
life by making it beautiful outside — to build a
wall of beauty between him and the facts of
life, turn his tastes and interests another way,
hide the Radiator from him as a smiling woman
at a ball may hide a cancer in her breast ! Just
as Alan was entering college his father died.
Then I saw nly way clear. I had loved my
husband — ^and yet I drew my first free breath in
years. For the Radiator had been left to Alan
outright — there was nothing on earth to prevent
his selling it when he came of age. And there
was no excuse for his not selling it. I had
brought him up to depend on money, but the
paper had given us enough money to gratify all
his tastes. At last we could turn on the monster
that had nourished us. I felt a savage joy in
the thought — I could hardly bear to wait till
Alan came of age. But I had never spoken to

3IO THE QUICKSAND iii

him of the paper, and I didn't dare speak of it
now. Some false shame kept me back, some
vague belief in his ignorance. I would wait
till he was twenty-one, and then we should be
free.

* I waited — the day came, and I spoke. You
can guess his answer, I suppose. He had no
idea of selling the Radiator. It wasn't the
money he cared for — it was the career that
tempted him. He was a born journalist, and
his ambition, ever since he could remember, had
been to carry on his father's work, to develop,
to surpass it. There was nothing in the world
as interesting as modern journalism. He couldn't
imagine any other kind of life that wouldn't
bore him to death. A newspaper like the
Radiator might be made one of the biggest
powers on earth, and he loved power, and
meant to have all he could get. I listened to
him in a kind of trance. I couldn't find a word
to say. His father had had scruples — he had

1 none. I seemed to realize at once that argu-
jment would be useless. I don't know that I
even tried to plead with him — he was so bright
and hard and inaccessible ! Then I saw that he
was, after all, what I had made him — ^the creature
of my concessions, my connivances, my evasions.
That was the price I had p^d for him — I had
. kept him at that cost !

* Well — I had kept him, at any rate. That
was the feeling that survived. He was my boy,
my son, my very own — till some other woman

Ill THE QUICKSAND 311

took him. Meanwhile the old life must go on
as it could. I gave up the struggle. If at that
point he was inaccessible, at others he was close
to me. He has always been a perfect son.
Our tastes grew together — we enjoyed the same
books, the same pictures, the same people. All
I had to do was to look at him in profile to see
the side of him that was really mine. At first I
kept thinking of the dreadful other side — but
gradually the impression faded, and I kept my
mind turned from it, as one does from a defor-
mity in a face one loves. I thought I had made
my last compromise with life — had hit on a
modus Vivendi that would last my time.

* And then he met you. I had always been
prepared for his marrying, but not a girl like
you. I thought he would choose a sweet thing
who would never pry into his closets — he hated
women with ideas ! But as soon as I saw you
I knew the struggle would have to begin again.
He is so much stronger than his father — he is
full of the most monstrous convictions. And
he has the courage of them, too — you saw last
year that his love for you never made him waver.
He believes in his work ; he adores it — it is a
kind of hideous idol to which he would make
human sacrifices ! He loves you still — I've been
honest with you — but his love wouldn't change
him. It is you who would have to change — to
die gradually, as I have died, till there is onljr
one live point left in me. Ah, if one died conjh
pletely — that's simple enough ! But something

312 THE QUICKSAND iii

persists — remember that — a single point, an
aching nerve of truth. Now and then you may
drug it — ^but a touch wakes it again, as your
face has waked it in me. There's sdways enough
of one's old self left to sufier with. . . .'

She stood up and faced the girl abruptly.
* What shaU I teU Alan.? ' she said.

Miss Fenno sat motionless, her eyes on the
ground. Twilight was falling on the gallery —
a twilight which seemed to emanate not so
much from the glass dome overhead as from
the crepuscular depths into which the faces of
the pictures were receding. The custodian's
step sounded warningly down the corridor.
When the girl looked up she was alone.

L-

A VENETIAN NIGHT'S
ENTERTAINMENT

3«3

This is the story that, in the dining-room of
the old Beacon Street house (now the Aldebaran
Club), Judge Anthony Bracknell, of the famous
East India firm of Bracknell & Saulsbee, when
the ladies had withdrawn to the oval parlour
(and Maria's harp was throwing its gauzy web
of sound across the Common), used to relate to
his grandsons, about the year that Buonaparte
marched upon Moscow.

* Him Venice ! ' said the Lascar with the big
ear-rings ; and Tony Bracknell, leaning on the
high gunwale of his father's East Indiaman, the
Hepzibah B., saw far off, across the morning
sea, a faint vision of towers and domes dissolved
in golden air.

It was a rare February day of the year 1760,
and young Tony, newly of age, and bound on
the grand tour aboard the crack merchantman
of old Bracknell's fleet, felt his heart leap up
as the distant city trembled into shape. Venice!
The name, since childhood, had been a magi-
cian's wand to him. In the hall of the old
Bracknell house at Salem there hung a series

3»5

3i6 A VENETIAN NIGHTS i

of yellowing prints which Unde Richard
SaiUsbee had brought home from one of his
long voyages : views of heathen mosques and
palaces, of the Grand Turk's Seraglio, of St.
Peter's Church in Rome ; and, in a corner —
the corner nearest the rack where the old
flintlocks hung — d, busy merry populous scene
entitled : Sf. Mark's Square in Venice. This
picture, from the first, had singularly taken
little Tony's fancy. His unformulated criticism
on the others was that they lacked action.
True, in the view of St. Peter's an experienced-
looking gentleman in a full-bottomed wig was
pointing out the fairly obvious monument to
a bashful companion, who had presumably not
ventured to raise his eyes to it ; while, at the
doors of the Seraglio, a group of turbaned in-
fidels observed virith less hesitancy the approach
of a veiled lady on a camel. But in Venice so
many things were happening at once — ^more,
Tony was sure, than had ever happened in
Boston in a twelvemonth or in Salem in a
long life-time. For here, by their garb, were
people of every nation on earth, L)hinamen,
Turks, Spaniards, and many more, mixed with
a parti- coloured throng of gentry, lackeys,
chapmen, hucksters, and tall personages in
parsons' gowns who stalked through the crowd
with an air of mastery, a string of parasites at
their heels. And all these people seemed to
be diverting themselves hugely, chaflpering with
the hucksters, watching the antics of trained

I ENTERTAINMENT 3 1 7

dogs and monkeys, distributing doles to maimed
beggars or having their pockets picked by
slippery-looking fellows in black — the whole
with such an air of ease and good-humour that
one felt the cut -purses to be as much a part
of the show as the tumbling acrobats and
animals.

As Tony advanced in years and experience
this childish mumming lost its magic ; but not
so the early imaginings it had excited. For
the old picture had been but the spring-board
of fancy, the first step of a cloud-ladder leading
to a land of dreams. With these dreams the
name of Venice remained associated ; and all
that observation or report subsequently brought
him concerning the place seemed, on a sober
warranty of fact, to confirm its claim to stand
midway between reality and illusion. There
was, for instance, a slender Venice glass, gold-
powdered as with lily pollen or the dust of
sunbeams, that, standing in the corner cabinet
betwixt two Lowestoft caddies, seemed, among
its lifeless neighbours, to palpitate like an
impaled butterfly. There was, farther, a gold
chain of his mother's, spun of that same sun-
pollen, so thread-like, impalpable, that it slipped
through the fingers like light, yet so strong
that it carried a heavy pendant which seemed
held in air as if by magic. Magic ! That was
the word which the thought of Venice evoked.
It was the kind of place, Tony felt, in which
things elsewhere impossible might naturally

31 8 A VENETIAN NIGHTS i

happen, in which two and two might make five,
a paradox elope with a syllogism, and a con-
clusion give the lie to its own premiss. Was
there ever a young heart that did not, once
and again, long to get away into such a world
as that? Tony, at least, had felt the longing
from the first hour when the axioms in his
horn-book had brought home to him his heavy
responsibilities as a Christian and a sinner.
And now here was his wish taking shape
before him, as the distant haze of gold shaped
itself into towers and domes across the morning
sea!

The Reverend Ozias Mounce, Tony*s
governor and bear-leader, was just putting
a hand to the third clause of the fourth part
of a sermon on Free-Will and Predestination
as the Hepzibah B.'s anchor rattled overboard.
Tony, in his haste to be ashore, would have
made one plunge with the anchor ; but the
Reverend Ozias, on being roused from his
lucubrations, earnestly protested against leaving
his argument in suspense. What was the trifle
of an arrival at some Papistical foreign city,
where the very churches wore turbans like so
many Moslem idolators, to the important fact
of Mr. Mounce's summing up his conclusions
before the Muse of Theology took flight ?
He should be happy, he said, if the tide served,
to visit Venice with Mr. Bracknell the next
morning.

The next morning, ha ! — Tony murmured

I ENTERTAINMENT , 319

a submissive * Yes, sir,* winked at the sub-
jugated captain^ buckled on his sword, pressed
his hat down with a flourish, and before
the Reverend Ozias had arrived at his next
deduction, was skimming merrily shoreward
in the Hepzibah's gig.

A moment more and he was in the thick
of it ! Here was the very world of the old
print, only suffused with sunlight and colour,
and bubbling with merry noises. What a scene
it was ! A square enclosed in fantastic painted
buildings, and peopled with a throng as
fantastic : a bawling, laughing, jostling, sweat-
ing mob, parti-coloured, parti-speeched, crack-
ling and sputtering under the hot sun like a
dish of fritters over a kitchen fire. Tony,
agape, shouldered his way through the press,
aware at once that, spite of the tumult, the
shrillness, the gesticulation, there was no under-
current of clownishness, no tendency to horse-
play, as in such crowds on market-day at home,
but a kind of facetious suavity which seemed
to include everybody in the circumference of
one huge joke. In such an air the sense of
strangeness soon wore off, and Tony was
beginning to feel himself vastly at home, when
a lift of the tide bore him against a droll-
looking bell -ringing fellow who carried above
his head a tall metal tree hung with sherbet-
glasses. The encounter set the glasses spinning,
and three or four spun off and clattered to the
stones. The sherbet-seller called on all the

320 A VENETIAN NIGHTS i

saints^ and Tony, clapping a lordly hand to his
pocket, tossed him a ducat by mistake for a
sequin. The fellow's eyes shot out of their
orbits^ and just then a personable-looking young
man who had observed the transaction stepped
up to Tony Und said pleasantly, in English :

*I perceive, sir, that you are not fanuliar
with our currency.*

* Does he want more ?* says Tony, very lordly ;
whereat the other laughed and replied : ^ You
have given him enough to retire from his busi-
ness and open a- gaming-house over the arcade/

Tony joined in the laugh, and this incident
bridging the preliminaries, the two young men
were presently hobnobbing over a glass of Canary
in front of one of the cofiee-houses about the
square. Tony counted himself lucky to have
run across an English-speaking companion who
was good-natured enough to give him a clue to
the labyrinth ; and when he had paid for the
Canary (in the coin his friend selected) they set
out again to view the town. The Italian gentle-
man, who called himself Count Rialto, appeared
to have a very numerous acquaintance, and was
able to point out to Tony all the chief dignitaries
of the state, the men of ton and ladies of fashion,
as well as a number of other characters of a kind
not openly mentioned in taking a census of
Salem.

Tony, who was not averse from reading
when nothing better offered, had perused the
* Merchant of Venice* and Mr. Otway*s fine

I ENTERTAINMENT 321

tragedy ; but though these pieces had given him
a notion that the social usages of Venice differed
from those at home, he was unprepared for the
surprising appearance and manners of the great
people his friend named to him. The gravest
Senators of the Republic went in prodigious
striped trousers, short cloaks and feathered hats.
One nobleman wore a ruff and doctor's gown,
another a black velvet tunic slashed with rose-
colour ; while the President of the dreaded
Council of Ten was a terrible strutting fellow
with a rapier-like nose, a buff leather jerkin and
a trailing scarlet cloak that the crowd was careful
not to step on.

It was all vastly diverting, and Tony would
gladly have gone on forever ; but he had given
his word to the captain to be at the landing-
place at sunset, and here was dusk already creep-
ing over the skies ! Tony was a man of honour ;
and having pressed on the Count a handsome
damascened dagger selected from one of the
goldsmiths' shops in a narrow street lined with
such wares, he insisted on turning his face toward
the Hepzibah's gig. The Count yielded reluc-
tantly ; but as they came out again on the
square they were caught in a great throng
pouring toward the doors of the cathedral.

*They go to Benediction,' said the Count.
* A beautiful sight, with many lights and flowers.
It is a pity you cannot take a peep at it.'

Tony thought so too, and in another minute
a l^less beggar had pulled back the leathern

322 A VENETIAN NIGHTS i

flap of the cathedral door, and they stood in a
haze of gold and perfume that seemed to rise
and fall on the mighty undulations of the organ.
Here the press was as thick as without ; and as
Tony flattened himself agsunst a pillar he heard
a pretty voice at his elbow: — *Oh, ar, oh, sir,
your sword ! *

He turned at sound of the broken English,
and saw a girl who matched the voice trying to
disengage her dress from the tip of his scabbard.
She wore one of the voluminous black hoods
which the Venetian ladies affected, and under its
projecting eaves her face spied out at him as
sweet .as a nesting bird.

In the dusk their hands met over the
scabbard, and as she freed herself a shred of her
lace flounce clung to Tony's enchanted fingers.
Looking after her, he saw she was on the arm of a
pompous-looking gray beard in a long black gown
and scarlet stockings, who, on perceiving the
exchange of glances between the young people,
drew the lady away with a threatening look.

The Count met Tony's eye with a smile.
* One of our Venetian beauties,' said he ; * the
lovely Polixena Cador. She is thought to have
the finest eyes in Venice.'

* She spoke English,' stammered Tony.

(Qh — ah — precisely : she learned the language
at the Court of Saint James, where her rather,
the Senator, was formerly accredited as Am-
bassador. She played as an infant with the
royal princes of England.'

I ENTERTAINMENT 323

* And that was her father ? '

* Assuredly : young ladies of Donna Polixena's
rank do not go abroad save with their parents
or a duenna/

Just then a soft hand slid into Tony's. His
heart gave a foolish bound, and he turned about
half-expecting to meet again the merry eyes
under the hood; but saw instead a slender
brown boy, in some kind of fanciful page's
dress, who thrust a folded paper between his
fingers and vanished in the throng. Tony, in a
tingle, glanced surreptitiously at the Count, who
appeared absorbed in his prayers. The crowd,
at the ringing of a bell, had in fact been, over-
swept by a sudden wave of devotion ; and
Tony seized the moment to step beneath a
lighted shrine with his letter.

^ I am in dreadful trouble and implore your
help. Polixena ' — he read ; but hardly had he
seized the sense of the words when a hand fell
on his shoulder, and a stern-looking man in a
cocked hat, and bearing a kind of rod or mace,
pronounced a few words in Venetian.

Tony, with a start, thrust the letter in his
breast, and tried to jerk himself free ; but the
harder he jerked the tighter grew the other's
grip, and the Count, presendy perceiving what
had happened, pushed his way through the
crowd, and whispered hastily to his companion :
^ For God's sake, make no struggle. This is
serious. Keep quiet and do as I tell you.'

Tony was no chicken-heart. He had some-

324 A VENETIAN NIGHTS i

thing of a name for pugnacity among the lads
of his own age at home, and was not the man to
stand in Venice what he would have resented in
Salem ; but the devil of it was that this black
fellow seemed to be pointing to the letter in his
breast ; and this suspicion was confirmed by the
G)unt's agitated whisper.

*This is one of the agents of the Ten. —
For God's take, no outcry/ He exchanged a
word or two with the mace-bearer and again
turned to Tony, * You have been seen concealing
a letter about your person *

* And what of that ? * says Tony furiously.

* Gently, gently, my master. A letter handed
to you by the page of Donna Polixena Cador. —
A black business ! Oh, a very black business !
This Gulor is one of the most powerful nobles
in Venice — I beseech you, not a word, ar ! Let
me think — deliberate '

His hand on Tony's shoulder, he carried oti
a rapid dialogue with the potentate in the
cocked hat.

*I am sorry, sir — but our young ladies of
rank are as jealously guarded as the Grand
Turk's wives, and you must be answerable for
this scandal. The best I can do is to have you
taken privately to the Palazzo Cador, instead
of being brought before the Council. I have
pleaded your youth and inexperience' — Tony
winced at this — ' and I think the business may
still be arranged.'

Meanwhile the agent of the Ten had yielded

I ENTERTAINMENT 325

his place to a sharp-featured shabby -looking
fellow in black, dressed somewhat like a lawyer*s
clerk, who laid a grimy hand on Tony's arm,
and with many apologetic gestures steered him
through the crowd to the doors of the church.
The Count held him by the other arm, and in
this fashion they emerged on the square, which
now lay in darkness save for the many lights
twinkling under the arcade and in the windows
of the gaming-rooms above it.

Tony by this time had regained voice enough
to declare that he would go where they pleased,
but that he must first say a word to the mate of
the Hepzibah, who had now been awaiting him
some two hours or more at the landing-place.

The Count repeated this to Tony's custodian,
but the latter shook his head and rattled off a
sharp denial.

* Impossible, sir,' said the Count. * I entreat
you not to insist. Any resistance will tell
against you in the end.'

Tony fell silent. With a rapid eye he was
measuring his chances of escape. In wind and
limb he was more than a mate for his captors,
and boyhood's ruses were not so far behind him
but he felt himself equal to outwitting a dozen
grown men ; but he had the sense to see that at
a cry the crowd would close in on him. Space
was what he wanted : a clear ten yards, and he
would have laughed at Doge and Council. But
the throng was thick as glue, and he walked
on submissively, keeping his eye alert for an

326 A VENETIAN NIGHT i

opening. Suddenly the mob swerved aside after
some new show. Tony's fist shot out at the
black fellow's chest, and before the latter could
right himself the young New Englander was
showing a dean pair of neels to his escort. On
he sped, cleaving the crowd like a flood-tide in
Gloucester bay, diving under the first arch that
caught his eye, dashing down a lane to an unlit
water-way, and plunging across a narrow hump-
back bridge which landed him in a black pocket
between walls. But now his pursuers were at
his back, reinforced by the yelping mob. The
walls were too high to scale, and for all his
courage Tony's breath came short as he paced
the masonry cage in which ill-luck had landed
him. Suddenly a sate opened in one of the
walls, and a slip of a servant wench looked out
and beckoned him. There was no time to
weigh chances. Tony dashed through the gate,
his rescuer slammed and bolted it, and the two
stood in a narrow paved well between high
houses.

The servant picked up a lantern and signed to
Tony to follow her. They climbed a squalid
stairway of stone, felt their way along a corridor,
and entered a tall vaulted room feebly lit by an
oil-lamp hung from the painted ceiling. Tony
discerned traces of former splendour in his sur-
roundings, but he had no time to examine them,
for a figure started up at his approach and in
the dim light he recognized the girl who was
the cause of all his troubles.

She sprang toward him with outstretched
hands, but as he advanced her face changed and
she shrank back abashed.

* This is a misunderstanding — a dreadful mis-
understanding,* she cried out in her pretty
broken English. *Oh, how does it happen
that you are here ? *

^Through no choice of my own, madam, I
assure you ! * retorted Tony, not overpleased by
his reception.

*But why — ^how — how did you make this
unfortunate mistake ? *

327

328 A VENETIAN NIGHTS ii

^ Why, madam, if youUl excuse my candour,
I think the mistake was yours *
*Minc?*

>in sending me a letter-

* Tou — z letter ? '
* by a simpleton of a lad, who must

needs hand it to me under your father's very

nose *

The girl broke in on him with a cry.
* What ! It was you who received my letter ? *
She swept round on the litde maid-servant and
submerged her under a flood of Venetian. The
latter volleyed back in the same jargon, and as
she did so, Tony's astonished eye detected in
her the doubleted page who had handed him
the letter in Saint Mark's.

* What ! ' he cried, ' the lad was this girl in
disffuise ? '

l^olixena broke off with an irrepressible smile ;
but her face clouded instandy and she returned
to the charge.

*This wicked, careless girl — she has ruined
me, she will be my undoing ! Oh, sir, how can
I make you understand? The letter was not
intended for you — it was meant for the English
Ambassador, an old friend of my mother's, from
whom I hoped to obtain assistance — oh, how
can I ever excuse myself to you ? '

* No excuses are needed, madam,' said Tony,
bowing ; ^ though I am surprised, I own, that
any one should mistake me for an ambassador.'

Here a wave of mirth agdn overran Polixena's

11 ENTERTAINMENT 329

fiice. * Oh, sir, you must pardon my poor girl's
mistake. She heard you speaking English, and
— and — I had told her to hand the letter to the
handsomest foreigner in the church/ Tony
bowed again, more profoundly. * The English
Ambassador,' Polixena added simply, * is a very
handsome man.'

* I wish, madam, I were a better proxy ! '

She echoed his laugh, and then clapped her

hands together with a look of anguish. ^ Fool

that I am ! How can I jest at such a moment ?

I am in dreadful trouble, and now perhaps I

have brought trouble on you also Oh, my

father ! I hear my father coming ! ' She turned
pale and leaned tremblingly upon the little
servant.

Footsteps and loud voices were in fact heard
outside, and a moment later the red-stockinged
Senator stalked into the room attended by half-
a-dozen of the magnificoes whom Tony had
seen abroad in the square. At sight of him, all
clapped hands to their swords and burst into
furious outcries ; and though their jargon was
unintelligible to the young man, their tones
and gestures made their meaning unpleasantly
plain. The Senator, with a start of anger, first
flung himself on the intruder ; then, snatched
back by his companions, turned wrathfully on
his daughter, who, at his feet, with outstretched
arms and streaming face, pleaded her cause with
all the eloquence or young distress. Meanwhile
the other nobles gesticulated vehemently among

330 A VENETIAN NIGHTS ii

themsdves, and one, a truculent-looking person-
age in rufF and Spanish cape, stalled apart,
keeping a jealous eye on Tony. The ktter
was at his wit's end how to comport himself, for
the lovely Polixena*s tears had quite drowned
her few words of English, and beyond guessing
that the magnificoes meant him a mischief he
had no notion what they would be at.

At this point, luckily, lus friend Count Rialto
suddenly broke in on the scene, and was at once
assailed by all the tongues in the room. He
pulled a long face at sight of Tony, but signed
to the young man to be silent, and addressed
himself earnestly to the Senator. The latter, at
first, would not draw breath to hear him ; but
presently, sobering, he walked apart with the
Count, and the two conversed together out of
earshot.

* My dear sir,* said the Count, at length
turning to Tony with a perturbed countenance,
Mt is as I feared, and you are fallen into a great
misfortune.'

* A great misfortune ! A great trap, I call
it ! * shouted Tony, whose blood, by this time,
was boiling ; but as he uttered the word the
beautiful Polixena cast such a stricken look on
him that he blushed up to the forehead.

* Be careful,* said the Count, in a low tone.
* Though his lUustriousness does not speak your
language he understands a few words of it,
and *

* So much the better I * broke in Tony ; * I

II ENTERTAINMENT 331

hope he will understand me if I ask him in plain
English what is his grievance against me.'

The Senator, at this, would have burst forth
again ; but the Count, stepping between,
answered quickly : * His grievance against you
is that you have been detected in secret corre-
spondence with his daughter, the most noble
Polixena Cador, the betrothed bride of this
gentleman, the most illustrious Marquess Zani-

polo ' and he waved a deferential hand at

the frowning hidalgo of the cape and ruff.

*Sir,* said Tony, *if that be the extent of
my offence, it lies with the young lady to set

me free, since by her own avowal ' but here

he stopped short, for, to his surprise, Polixena
shot a terrified glance at him.

*Sir,* interposed the Count, *we are not
accustomed in Venice to take shelter behind a
lady's reputation.'

* No more are we in Salem,' retorted Tony
in a white heat. * I was merely about to remark
that, by the young lady's avowal, she has never
seen me before.'

Polixena's eyes signalled her gratitude, and he
felt he would have died to defend her.

The Count translated his statement, and
presently pursued : * His lUustriousness observes
that, in that case, his daughter's misconduct has
been all the more reprehensible.'

* Her misconduct ? Of what does he accuse
her?'

* Of sending you, just now, in the church of

332 A VENETIAN NIGHTS ii

Saint Mark, a letter which you were seen to
read openly and thrust in your bosom. The
incident was witnessed by his lUustriousness the
Marauess Zanipolo, who, in consequence, has
already repudiated Us unhappy bride.'

Tony stared contemptuously at the black
Marquess. * If his Illustriousness is so lacking
in gallantry as to repudiate a lady on so trivial
a pretext, it is he and not I who should be the
object of her father's resentment.'

* That, my dear young gentleman, is hardly
for you to decide. Your only excuse being
your ignorance of our customs, it is scarcely for
you to advise us how to behave in matters of
punctilio.'

It seemed to Tony as though the Count were
going over to his enemies, and the thought
sharpened his retort.

' I had supposed,' said he, ^ that men of sense
had much the same behaviour in all countries,
and that, here as elsewhere, a gentleman would
be taken at his word. I solemnly affirm that
the letter I was seen to read reflects, in no way
on the honour of this young lady, and has in
fact nothing to do with what you suppose.*

As he had himself no notion what the letter
was about, this was as far as he dared commit
himself.

There was another brief consultation in the
opposing camp, and the Count then said : —
* We all know, sir, that a gentleman is obliged
to meet certain enquiries by a denial ; but you

II ENTERTAINMENT 333

have at your command the means of imme-
diately clearing the lady. Will you show the
letter to her father ? '

There was a perceptible pause, during which
Tony, while appearing to look straight before
him, managed to deflect an interrogatory glance
toward Polixena. Her reply was a faint nega-
tive motion, accompanied by unmistakable signs
of apprehension.

* Poor girl 1 ' he thought, * she is in a worse
case than I imagined, and whatever happens I
must keep her secret/

He turned to the Senator with a deep bow.
' I am not/ said he, * in the habit of showing my
private correspondence to strangers/

The Count interpreted these words, and
Donna Polixena's father, dashing his hand on
his hilt, broke into furious invective, while the
Marquess continued to nurse his outraged feel-
ings aloof.

The Count shook his head funereally. * Alas,
sir, it is as I feared. This is not the first time
that youth and propinquity have led to fatal
imprudence. But I need hardly, I suppose,
point out the obligation incumbent upon you as
a man of honour/

Tony stared at him haughtily, with a look
which was meant for the Marquess. *And
what obligation is that ? '

*To repair the wrong you have done — in
other words, to marry the lady.*

Polixena at this burst into tears, and Tony

334 A VENETIAN NIGHTS ii

8ud to himself : * Why in heaven does she not
bid me show the letter ? ' Then he remembered
that it had no superscription, and that the
words it contained, supposing them to have
been addressed to hiniiself, were hardly of a
nature to disarm suspicion. The sense of the
girFs grave plight efiaced all thought of his own
risk, but the Count's last words struck him as so
preposterous that he could not repress a smile.

* I cannot flatter myself,' said he, * that the
lady would welcome this solution.'

The Count's manner became increasingly
ceremonious. *Such modesty,' he said, ^be-
comes your youth and inexperience ; but even
if it were justified it would scarcely alter the
case, as it is always assumed in this country that
a young l^dy wishes to marry the man whom
her father has selected.'

*But I understood just now,' Tony inter-
posed, * that the gentleman yonder was in that
enviable position.

* So he was, till circumstances obliged him to
waive the privilege in your favour.'

* He does me too much honour ; but if a
deep sense of my unworthiness obliges me to
dedine *

*You are still,' interrupted the Count,
* labouring imder a misapprehension. Your
choice in the matter is no more to be consulted
than the lady's. Not to put too fine a point on
it, it is necessary that you should marry her
within the hour.'

II ENTERTAINMENT 335

Tony, at this, for all his spirit, fdt the blood
run thin in his veins. He looked in silence at
the threatening visages between himself and the
door, stole a side-glance at the high barred
windows of the apartment, and then turned to
Polixena, who had fallen sobbing at her father's
feet.

• And if I refuse ? * said he.

The Count made a significant gesture. ^I
am not so foolish as to threaten a man of your
mettle. But perhaps you are unaware what the
consequences would be to the lady.*

Polixena, at this, struggling to her feet,
addressed a few impassioned words to the Count
and her. father ; but the latter put her aside
with an obdurate gesture.

The Count turned to Tony. * The lady her-
self pleads for you — at what cost you do not
less — but as you see it is vain. In an hour
lis Illustriousness*s chaplain will be here. Mean-
while his Illustriousness consents to leave you in
the custody of your betrothed.*

He stepped back, and the other gentlemen,
bowing with deep ceremony to Tony, stalked
out one by one from the room. Tony heard
the key turn in the lock, and found himself
alone with Polixena.

The girl had sunk into a chair, ner face hidden,
a picture of shame and agony. So moving was
the sight that Tony once again forgot his own
extremity in the view of her distress. He went
and kneeled beside her, drawing her hands from
her face.

* Oh, don't make me look at you ! * she
sobbed ; but it was on his bosom that she hid
from his gaze. He held her there a breathing-
space, as he might have clasped a weeping
child ; then she drew back and put him gently
from her.

^ What humiliation ! ' she lamented.

* Do you think I blame you for what has
happened ? '

*Alas, was it not my foolish letter that
brought you to this plight ? And how nobly
you defended me ! How generous it was of
ou not to show the letter ! If my father knew
had written to the Ambassador to save me
from this dreadful marriage his anger against
me would be even greater."

Ill A VENETIAN NIGHT 337

* Ah — it was that you wrote for ? ' cried Tony
with unaccountable relief.

' Of course — what else did you think ? *

* But is it too late for the Ambassador to
save you ? '

* From you ? ' A smile flashed through her
tears. * Alas, yes.* She drew back and hid her
face agdn, as though overcome by a fresh wave
of shame.

Tony glanced about him. * If I could wrench
a bar out of that window ' he muttered.

* Impossible ! The court is guarded. You
are a prisoner, alas. — Oh, I must speak ! * She
sprang up and paced the room. *But indeed
you can scarce think worse of me than you do
already '

' I think ill of you ? *

* Alas, you must ! To be unwilling to marry
the man my father has chosen for me '

* Such a beetle-browed lout ! It would be a
burning shame if you married him.'

* Ah, you come from a free country. Here
a girl is allowed no choice.'

* It is infamous, I say — infamous ! '

* No, no — I ought to have resigned myself,
like so many others.'

* Resigned yourself to that brute ! Im-
possible ! '

*He has a dreadful name for violence — his
gondolier has told my little maid such tales of
him ! But why do I talk of myself, when it is
of you I should be thinking ? '

338 A VENETIAN NIGHTS in

' Of me, poor child ? ' cried Tony, losing his
head.

* Yes, and how to save you — for I can save
you. But every moment counts — ^and yet what
I have to say is so dreadful.'

* Nothing from your lips could seem
dreadful.'

< Ah, if he had had your way of speaking ! '
•Well, now at least you are free of him,'

said Tony, a little wildly ; but at this she stood

up and bent a grave look on him.

* No, I am not free,' she said ; ^ but you are,
if you will do as I tell you.'

Tony, at this, felt a sudden dizziness ; as
though, from a mad flight through clouds and
darkness, he had dropped to safety again, and
the fall had stunned him.

* What am I to do ? ' he said.

•Look away from me, or I can never tell
you.'

He thought at first that this was a jest, but
her eyes commanded him, and reluctantly he
walked away and leaned in the embrasure of the
window. She stood in the middle of the room,
and as soon as his back was turned she began to
speak, in a quick monotonous voice, as though
she were reciting a lesson.

* You must know that the Marquess Zanipolo,
though a great noble, is not a rich man. True,
he has large estates, but he is a desperate spend-
thrift and gambler, and would sell his soul for a
round sum of ready money. — ^If you turn round

in ENTERTAINMENT 339

I shall not go on ! — He wrangled horribly with
my father over my dowry — he wanted me to
have more than either of my sisters, though one
married a Procurator and the other a grandee
of Spain. But my father is a gambler too — oh,
such fortunes as are squandered over the arcade
yonder ! And so — and so— don't turn, I im-
plore you — oh, do you begin to see my
meaning ? '

She broke off sobbing, and it took all his
strength to keep his eyes from her.

* Go on,' he sjud.

* Will you not understand ? Oh, I would
say anything to save you ! You don't know us
Venetians — we're all to be bought for a price.
It is not only the brides who are marketable —
sometimes the husbands sell themselves too. —
And they think you rich — my father does, and
the others — I don't know why, unless you have
shown your money too freely — and the English
are all rich, are they not? And — oh, oh —
do you understand? Oh, I can't bear your
eyes ! *

She dropped into a chair, her head on her
arms, and Tony in a flash was at her side.

* My poor child, my poor Polixena ! ' he
cried, and wept and clasped her.

*You are rich, are you not? You would
promise them a ransom ? ' she persisted.

* To enable you to marry the Marquess ? '
*To enable you to escape from this place.

Oh, I hope I may never see your face again.'

z 2

340 A VENETIAN NIGHTS iii

She fell to weeping once more, and he drew
away and paced the floor in a fever.

Presently she sprang up with a fresh air of
resolution, and pointed to a clock against the
wall. * The hour is nearly over. It is quite
true that my father is gone to fetch his chaplain.
Oh, I implore you, be warned by me ! There
is no other way of escape.'

* And if I do as you say ? '

* You are safe ! You are free ! I stake my
life on it.*

* And you — ^you are married to that villain ? '

* But I shall have saved you. Tell me your
name, that I may say it to myself when I am
alone.*

* My name is Anthony. But you must not
marry that fellow.'

* You forcive me, Anthony ? You don't
think too badly of me ? '

* I say you must not marry that fellow.'

She laid a trembling hand on his arm. * Time
presses,' she adjured him, * and I warn you there
is no other way.'

For a moment he had a vision of his mother,
sitting very upright, on a Sunday evening, read-
ing Dr. Tillotson's sermons in the best parlour
at Salem ; then he swung round on the girl and
caught both her hands in his. * Yes, there is,'
he cried, * if you are willing. Polixena, let the
priest come 1 '

She shrank back from him, white and radiant.
' Oh, hush, be silent ! ' she said.

Ill ENTERTAINMENT 341

* I am no noble Marquess, and have no great
estates,' he cried. * My father is a plain India
merchant in the colony of Massachusetts — but
if you *

* Oh, hush, I say ! I don't know what your
long words mean. But I bless you, bless you,
bless you on my knees ! ' And she knelt before
him, and fell to kissing his hands.

He drew her up to his breast and held her
there.

* You are willing, Polixena ? ' he said.

* No, no ! ' She broke from him with out-
stretched hands. *I am not willing. You
mistake me. I must marry the Marquess, I
tell you ! *

* On my money ? ' he taunted her ; and her
burning blush rebuked him.

* Yes, on your money,' she said sadly.

* Why ? Because, much as you hate him,
you hate me still more ? '

She was silent.

* If you hate me, why do you sacrifice your-
self for me ? ' he persisted.

* You torture me ! And I tell you the hour
is past.'

*Let it pass. I'll not accept your sacrifice.
I will not lift a finger to help another man to
marry you.'

* Oh, madman, madman 1 ' she murmured.
Tony, with crossed arms, faced her squarely,

and she leaned against the wall a few feet off
from him. Her breast throbbed under its lace

342 A VENETIAN NIGHT'S iii

and falbalas, and her eyes swam with terror and
entreaty.

* Polixena, I love you ! * he cried.

A blush swept over her throat and bosom,
bathing her in light to the verge of her troubled
brows.

* I love you ! I love you ! * he repeated.
And now she was on his breast again, and all

their youth was in their lips. But her embrace
was as fleeting as a bird's poise, and before he
knew it he clasped empty air and half the room
was between them.

She was holding up a little cond charm and
laughing. ^ I took it from your fob,' she said.
* It is of no value, is it ? And I shall not get
any of the money, you know.*

She continued to laugh strangely, and the
rouge burned like fire in her ashen face.

* What are you talking of } ' he ssid.
*They never give me anything but the

clothes I wear. And I shall never see you
again, Anthony ! ' She gave him a dreadfiil
look. *Oh, my poor boy, my poor love — "/
love you^ I love you^ Polixena / " '

He thought she had turned light-headed, and
advanced to her with soothing words ; but she
held him quietly at arm's length, and as he
gazed he read the truth in her face.

He fell back from her, and a sob broke from
him as he bowed his head on his hands.

*Only, for God's sake, have the money
ready, or there may be foul play here,' she s^d.

Ill ENTERTAINMENT 343

As she spoke there was a great tramping
of steps outside and a burst of voices on the
threshold.

' It is all a lie/ she gasped out, * about my
marriage, and the Marquess, and the Am-
bassador, and the Senator — but not, oh, not
about your danger in this place — or about my
love,' she breathed to him. And as the key
rattled in the door she laid her lips on his brow.

The key rattled, and the door swung open —
but the black-cassocked gentleman who stepped
in, though a priest indeed, was no votary of
idolatrous rites, but that sound orthodox divine,
the Reverend Ozias Mounce, looking very much
perturbed at his surroundings, and very much
on the alert for the Scarlet Woman. He was
supported, to his evident relief, by the captain
of the Hepzibah B., and the procession was
closed by an escort of stern-looking fellows in
cocked hats and small-swords, who led between
them Tony*s late friends the magnificoes, now
as sorry a looking company as the law ever
landed in her net.

The captain strode briskly into the room,
uttering a grunt of satisfaction as he clapped
eyes on Tony.

* So, Mr. Bracknell,* said he, * you have been
seeing the Carnival with this pack of mummers,
have you ? And this is where your pleasuring
has landed you ? H*m — a pretty establishment,
and a pretty lady at the head of it.* He glanced
about the apartment, and doffed his hat with

344 A VENETIAN NIGHTS iii

mock ceremony to Polixena, who faced him like
a princess.

* Why, my girl/ said he, amicably, * I think
I saw you this morning in the square, on the
arm of the Pantaloon yonder ; and as for that
dptain Spavent — * and he pointed a derisive
finger at the Marquess — * I've watched him
drive his bully's trade under the arcade ever
since I first dropped anchor in these waters.
Well, well,' he continued, his indignation sub-
siding, * all's fair in Carnival, I suppose, but this
gentleman here is under sailing orders, and I
rear we must break up your litde party.'

At this Tony saw Count Rialto step forward,
looking very small and explanatory, and un-
covering obsequiously to the captsdn.

^ I can assure you, sir,' said the Count in his
best English, * that this incident is the result of
an unfortunate misunderstanding, and if you
^1 oblige us by dismissing these myrmidons,
any of my friends here will be happy to oflTer
satisfaction to Mr. Bracknell and his com-
panions.'

Mr. Mounce shrank visibly at this, and the
captain burst into a loud gufiTaw.

* Satisfiiction ? ' says he. * Why, my cock,
that's very handsome of you, considering the
rope's at your throats. But we'll not take
advantage of your generosity, for I fear Mr.
Brackndl has already trespassed on it too long.
You pack of galley-slaves, you ! ' he splutter^
suddenly, ' decoying young innocents with that

Ill ENTERTAINMENT 345

devil's bait of yours * His eye fell on

Polixena, and his voice softened unaccountably.
* Ah, well, we must all see the Carnival once, I
suppose,' he said. * All's well that ends well, as
the fellow says in the play; and now, if you
please, Mr. Bracknell, if you'll take the reverend
gentleman's ,arm there, we'll bid adieu to our
hospitable entertainers, and right about face for
the Hepzibah.'

THE END

PrtHitdhy R. & R. Clark, Limited, EdtMburrh.

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T. BOOKBINDINO CO.

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ONTROL MARK

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